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ADVICE 


IN  THE 


PURSUITS  OF  LITERATURE, 

CONTAINING 

HISTORICAL,  BIOGRAPHICAL,  AND  CRITICAL 
REMARKS, 


BY  SAMUEL  L.  KNAPP. 


'  Clear  arsumentB  may  rise 


In  short  succession  :  Vet  th'  historic  draught 
Shall  occupy  attention's  steadfast  souL" 

"  Here  may  the  historic  instance  give  efTect 
10  moral  txjrtraits." 

"  Here  let  us  breathe  ;  and  happily  instltuta 
A  course  of  learning  and  In  enlous  studies." 


PUIILTSIIED   BY    GEORGE    H.    EVANS, 

UaAKVILLE,    MIDDLETOWW,    N.    J. 

A>D  SOLD   BV    TIIK   J'KK-<CH'Ah   HOOKSKI-hERS   TIIROUGHODT 

THK   L'WITEH  STATES. 

1837. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  January,  1832,  by 
J.  K.  Porter,  in  the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Southern  Distrie;' 
of  New- York. 


m 

'i'l 

Kn>p 


TO  THE  MEMBERS 

CF  THE 

MERCANTILE  LIBRARY  ASSOCIATION, 

WHO, 

ASIIDST  THE  CARES  AND   BUSINESS 

OF  ACTIVE  LIFE, 

OR  IN  THE  DOMESTIC  CIRCLE, 

ARE   ENGAGED  IN  THE  PUHSDIT  OF   THAT  KNOWLEDGE 

WHICH  GIVES  EXPANSION  TO  THOOGBT  J 

STRENGTH  TO  THE  MIND  , 

FIRMNESS  TO  PURPOSE  J 

REFINEMENT  TO  MORALS  ; 

AND   WEIGHT  TO  CHARACTER; 

THIS   VOLUME, 

CONTAINING  A  FEW  HINTS,  BY  WAY  OP  ADVICE, 

UPON  AITTHORS  AND  ERAS  OF  LITERATURE 

AND   OTHER  RELATIVE   MATTERS, 

IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED, 

BY   THEIR  SINCERE  FRIEND, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


884 'i  80 


CONTENTS. 


page. 

Dedication,  s 

Preftce,  8 

COAPTER  L 

Introductory— Elcnenlary  Education— The  DJble- Juvenile  Books— Read 
ing  for  Amusement- Metl)Od  in  Reading— Remarks  to  the  Ladies— Gene- 
ral Uteraturt:— State  of  Man  l)efore  the  CuUi\'ation  of  Letters— When 
Letters  were  Invented— Lettered  men  of  the  Early  Ages— Influence  of 
Letters  upon  Man— Effect  of  Letters  decried  by  Certain  Reasoncrs— Their 
Assertions  Denied— Letters  more  Glorious  and  Permanent  than  Art-The 
English  Language— The  Saxon  Language— The  Saxons  and  Normans- 
Layman's  works-Robert  De  Brunne's  History  of  England— Reign  of 
the  Romans— Romances— Age  of  Chivalry— Fictions  of  the  present  day- 
Johnson's  Rasselas— Godwin's  St.  Leon— Caleb  Williams-Sir  Walter 
Scott— Novels  founded  on  Fact— The  father  of  English  Poetry-  Objects  of 
the  Poetry  of  his  Predecessors— These  OHJects  Reformed  by  Chaucer— Ge- 
nius of  Chaucer— Byron's  opinion  of  him— Chaucer's  Contemporaries- 
Chaucer's  Satire— Dr>'den  and  Pope's  opinion  of  him,&c.— Jolin  Gower— 
Originality  auid  Genius— Gower's  Monument— John  the  Chaplain— Tho- 
mas Occleve— Henr>-  V.— Society— Lydgate— Criticism  Evidence  of  Mental 
Ll§ht— The  Laurel  Crown  of  Italy  and  England— John  Kay,  Poet  Laureate 
10  Edward  IV.— Poetical  Distinctions-Barclay- Skelton— Lord  fc"urry— 
The  Father  of  English  Blank  Verse— Blank  Verse— Sir  John  Mandeville, 
tlie  Traveller— Effect  of  the  Accounts  of  his  Travels— Ralph  Higden— Tre- 
vlsa— His  translation  of  the  Bible— WickUffe,  the  Refomier— Malice  of  the 
Popes  against  his  Memory— Founder  of  the  Protestant  Religion— Bishop 
Peacock-Sir  John  JXirtescue— Use  of  Printing— William  Caxton— The 
first  book  printed  in  England-Chronicles  of  England-Similarity  of 
Ttioughtand  Expression  In  DifferentLanguages- Effectof  Exiiellingthe 
firoek  Scholars  from  Constairdnople-Pir  Thomas  More— Wilson,  the 
Rbriorlclan— FlguraUve  Language— William. Pullward— The  reigns  of 
>>lward  and  Mary-Reign  of  EUiabeth-The  Bcripturcs-Lady  Jaqe 
cirpy-Source  of  American  Literature— I'arillel  between  the  Literature 
of  that  8ce  and  the  present- General  Diffusion  of  Literature.    -  -         9 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  age  of  Elizabeth— Spenser— The  Fairy  ftueen- Its  characteristics— Mo- 
nument to  Spenser,  by  Ann,  Countess  of  Dorset— Imitations  of  his  Stanzas 
—Extracts,  "Description  of  Prince  Arthur"— "Description  of  Belphebe" — 
Drayton— Extract,  "  Description  of  Lady  Geraldine"— Roger  Ascham— 
The  Schoolmaster- John  Pox— HoUingshead— Raleigh— Selby— Cecil— 
Stow— KnoUes—Agard— Richard  Hooker— Ecclesiastical  Polity— Shaks- 
peare— Youthful  Indiscretion— Flight  to  London— Entry  upon  the  Stage— 
His  plays— Power  of  his  Genius  and  Imagination— His  HMucation— His 
Writings  the  Production  of  Profound  Thought— The  Stage— The  Mind  ctf 
aian— Richard  HI.— Lady  Macbeth— Macbeth— Sliades  of  Character— Suc- 
cessful Delineations  of  the  Human  Passions— Inferior  and  Super-human 
Beings— Caliban— Ariel— Shakspeare's  universal  Exhibition  of  Character 
—The  Poet  of  Nature— Francis  Bacon,  the  Great  Reformer  In  Philosophy— 
The  English  Language— Sufferings  of  Bacon  from  the  Meanness  of  those 
around  him— Robert  Burton— Anatomy  of  Melancholy— Milton— His  in- 
timation to  do  something  for  the  Honor  of  his  Country— Made  Latin  Se- 
cretary of  State— Loss  of  his  Eyesight— Paradise  Lost— Extract  from 
"theMaskof  Coraus."  .......         34 


CHAPTER  HL 

Sir  William  Davenant-Cowley—Dryden— Little  and  Shadwell— Sir  Chris- 
topher Wren— Matthew  Prior— De  Foe— Addison— Sir  Isaac  Newton- 
Pope— Young-Thomas  Parnell-Dr.  Arbuthnot— Gay-Swift-Bolingbroke 
—Sir  Wm.  Temple— Dr.  Watts— Extract,  the  "  Indian  Philosooher."     - 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Lord  Lyttleton— Earl  of  Chesterfield— Thomson— Extract, "  The  Temple  of 
Liberty"— Sterne— Akenside— Extract  from  the  "Pleasures  of  Imagina- 
tion"—Shenstone— Extract,  "Jemmy  Dawson"— Collins— Extract,  "To 
Fear"— The  Elder  Pitt— Lord  Mansfield— Goldsmith— Extract  from  the 
"Deserted  Village"— Edmund  Burke— Fox— Sir  Joshua  Reynolds— Dr. 
Johnson— Beattie— Junius — Churchill— Lloyd — John  Wilkes — Thomas 
and  Joseph  Warlon— Extracts,  "  The  Suicide"—"  Ode  to  Superstition." 


CHAPTER  V. 

Cowper-Extract from" The Task"-Sir  William  Jones-Extract,  "Soli- 
ma"— Southey— Coleridge-Godwin— Rogers— Extract,  "  Verses,  written 
to  be  spoken  by  Mrs.  Siddons"— Thomas  Campbell— Extracts  from  the 
•' Pleasures  of  Hope"—"  Hohenlinden." ID 


CHAPTER  Vt. 

•Crabbe— Extract,  "  Phoebe  Dawson"— Hume,  the  Histow:in- Llngard— Sha- 
ron Turner— Croly-Thomas  Moore— Extnicl,  "Go  where  Glory  waits 
thee"— William  L.  Bowles- Extract,  "  To  Time"— Rev.  Henry  Rlilman— 
Extract,  "  Ode  to  the  Saviour" -Byron— Extract,  "Stanzas"- Shelly— Ex- 
tract, "  Dedication  to  the  Revolt  of  Islam"— Pursuits  of  Literature,  by 
Mathias— The  age  of  Fiction— Mrs.  Radcliff— Miss  Edgeworth— Walter 
SeoiL 167 

CHAPTEU  VH. 

Classical  Learning-Extract  from  Mllion—Histoo'— Biography— Eloquence 
-Geography- Homer— Account  of  bis  Birth  and  Life,  supposed  by  Hero- 
dotus—His Works— Extracts,  "  Watch  of  the  Trojans  before  the  walls  of 
Troy"— Pan  of  the  "  Hymn  to  Apollo"— HesiotI— Extract,  "  Combat  of 
Hercule.s  and  Cygnus"— Pindar— Extract  from  the  "  Second  Olympic 
Ode"-The  Dramatic  Poets— The  Age  of  Philosophy— Plato— Demosthe- 
nes—Extract  from  "Olynthiac  the  Third"— Isocratcs— Greek  Historians 
—Herodotus— Thucydldes—Xenophon. 167 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

The  History  of  the  Roman  Empire— Numa— Lucius  Junius  Brtitus— The 
Consuls— The  Dictator— The  Tribunes— Coriolanus—Spurius  Cassias 
Vlscillinus— The  Twelve  Tables- The  Decemvir— Applus  Claudius  and 
Virginias- Payment  of  Soldiers— Rome  Burnt  and  Rebuilt— The  Punic 
Wars  against  the  Carthagenlans,  ending  with  the  destruction  of  Carthago 
—Rome  conquers  Greece— The  Gracchil— Corruption  of  the  Senate— Ma- 
rlus  and  Sylla— Lepldus  and  Pompey  — Catillne'sConspiracy— Ctesar— The 
Triumvirate— FirstEmperor—Meopnas— Tiberius— Caligula— Claudius- 
Nero— Vespaclan— Trajan— Adrian— The  Antonies— Constantino — Livy 
—Tacitus— Pliny  the  Elder- Pliny  the  Younger— Policy  of  the  Romans— 
Tlieir  Architecture— Poets  and  Philosophers— The  Mo.lerns  more  indebt- 
ed to  Greece  than  to  Rome— Lucretius  and  Catullus— Virgil— Extracts, 
'Tliyrus  and  Mellboeus"— "  Polllo"— Horace— Extract,  "  Ode  to  Lollius" 
—"Ode  to  Meca:nas"— Ovid— Extract,  "Elcfy  on  his  Exile"— Juvenal— 
CUudlan— Extract,  '-The  Old  Man  of  Verona"— The  Ancient  Oracles  and 
Mysteries— Sybilllne  Oricles- Extract  from  Milton— Superstitions  traced 
to  the  diseases  of  tie  Body  or  Mind- Modern  Witchcraft— Extract  from 
BeatUe. au 

CHAPTER  IX. 

DlTlslon  and  Decline  of  the  Roman  Empire— The  Huns-The  Goths— Ala- 
rle  aubdues   Rooie— AUlU-ThcodorIc— ^^e8t  and  East  Ooths-Bcllsa- 


VUI 


rius— Christians  and  Pagans— Mahomet— Tlie  Koran— Progress  in  Build- 
ing and  Sailing  Ships— Spread  of  Christianity— Spread  of  Literature  and 
Philosophy— Foundation  of  Venice— Its  Civil  Government— Tlie  Doge- 
Commerce  of  Venice— Florence— Tlie  Arabs— The  Enthusiasm  for  Litera- 
ture in  the  Ninth  Century— The  Arabic  Language— The  Pandects  of  Justi- 
nian—France  and  England— The  Magna  Charta— Polarity  of  Magnetized 
Iron— Constantinople  Conquered  by  the  French  and  Venetians— Abandon- 
ed by  the  Conquerors— Held  by  the  Greeks— Taken  by  the  Turks— Pro- 
gress of  Navigation— Portugal— Commencement  of  Discoveries- Madeira 
Islands— Cape  De  Vei'd  Islands— The  Azores— Passing  of  the  Line— Cape 
of  Good  Hope— The  Genoese— The  Tuscans— Casmo  De  Medicis— Lorenzo 
the  Magnificent— Columbus'  first  Voyage  of  Discovery— The  Mediterra- 
nean—Columbus—Jealousy of  the  Portuguese— Henry  VII.— The  Brotlier 
of  Columbus— Juan  Peres— Isabella— Jealousy  of  the  Spanish— The  Fleet 
of  Columbus— Sailing  of  the  Expedition— Irving's  Life  of  Columbus— 
Ojeda— Amerigo  Vespucci— Derivation  of  A^nericor— The  Fame  of  Colum- 
bus—Jolin  Cabot— The  Discoverer  of  the  Western  Continent— Newfound- 
land—Sebastian  Caljot— South  America— Cabral— Brazil- Luther  and  Cal- 
vin—Settlement of  America— Tlie  Characters  of  Columbus  and  Cabot— His- 
tory of  Cortes— Conquest  of  Montezuma— History  of  Guatimozin-Cruelty 
ofCortes-Pizarro-Crueltiesofthe  Spaniards,  and  Forbearanceof  the  Chil- 
dren of  the  Sun— Tupac  Amam  -His  Execution— The  Republics  of  South 
America— Queen  Elizabeth-Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert— Takes  formal  Pos- 
session of  Newfoundland— Budeius— Gilbert's  Ship  founders  in  a  Storm 
—Energy  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh— Amadas  and  Barlow— Tlieir  Character 
of  the  Aboriginals  of  America— Sir  Richard  Grenville— Governor  Lane— 
Herriat— Object  of  those  who  first  came  to  this  Country— Governor  Lane 
and  his  Colony  return  home— Sir  Richard  Grenville  leaves  a  new  colony 
on  the  Island  of  Roanoke— Sir  Walter  Raleigh  Introduces  the  use  of  To- 
bacco in  England— Continues  his  efforts  to  settle  Virginia— Gosnold— 
James  II.— Elizabeth— Richard  Hackluyt— Capt.  John  Smith-First  Settle- 
ment on  Manhattan  Island— Elok  and  Christaonse— Monopoly  of  tlie  States 
General— The  first  Governor— The  Government— Trade— First  Child  born 
in  America  of  European  Parents— Tlie  Waaloons— De  Leet's  History  of  the 
New  World— Pirates— Governor  Minuit's  Deputations  to  the  Governor 
and  Council  of  Plymouth— Governor  Bradford's  Reception  and  Treatment 
thereof— Courtesy  and  Good  Faith  between  the  Settlements— Von  Twiller 
—Legitimacy  of  the  Settlement  acknowledged— The  first  Settlers— Settle- 
ment of  Plymouth— Their  Early  Disaster— Their  Arrival  and  Landing 
upon  Cape  Cod- Their  Title  to  the  Lands— Reflections  upon  the  Settle- 
ment of  America— Conclusion.  ......         263 


PREFACE. 

It  is  said  that  the  Romans  were  the  first  people  who  set  up  mile- 
Btoues  along  their  roads  into  tlie  country,  for  tlie  benefit  of  the  way- 
faring man.  The  wealthy  travellers  could  take  guides,  when  they 
wanted  them,  to  save  themselves  labour  and  trouble,  on  their  excur- 
sions ;  and  the  professed  tourist  had  skill  and  science  enough  to  ftnd 
his  way  by  tlie  great  guides  of  nature, — tlie  rivers  and  mountixins — 
tiie  sun,  moon,  and  stars — and  the  lantlmarks  set  up  by  his  pre- 
cursors;— but  the  business  man  required  these  speaking  stones 
directly  in  his  way,  to  guide  him  on  his  journey.  So,  in  the  paths 
of  knowledge,  those  who  have  leisure,  and  are  not  under  the  necea- 
sity  of  measuring  time  by  hours,  or  distances  by  time,  can  course 
along  at  will,  and  find  amusement  and  instruction  in  every  thing 
they  look  upon ;  and  the  professed  scholar  knows  the  tracks  of  his 
predecessors  in  the  walks  of  literature,  and  can  examine  all  the 
monuments  they  have  established  without  fear  or  anxiety,  for  he 
can  easily  correct  his  errors,  if  he  should  fall  into  any.  But  those 
engaged  in  the  busy  scenes  of  life,  and  to  whom  literature  is  inci- 
dental, suffer  for  want  of  a  few  directions  in  getting  the  most  inform- 
ation from  the  best  sources  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  They 
are  thankful  for  being  directed  to  the  most  splendid  epochs  of  human 
knowledge,  and  fairly  introduced  to  some  of  the  best  authors  of  any 
age  of  intelligence.  If  there  be  no  royal  road  to  geometry,  there  is 
a  short  cut  to  a  respectable  share  of  knovledge,  both  ancient  and 
modem. 

The  f«w  remarks  found  in  this  volume  are,  in  furtherance  of  my 
purpose,  made  historical,  biographical,  and  critical,  with  a  view  to 
furnish  an  outlme  in  the  miscellaneous  reading  of  the  English 
Bcholar.  These  remarks, — with  what  success  the  reader  will  best 
judge, — are  intended  to  point  out  some  of  the  most  valuable  authors, 
whose  works  he  may  safely  peruse,  and  some  of  those  passages  in 
the  progreM  of  human  knowledge  with  which  it  is  necessary  to  be 
familiar,  in  order  to  give  one  a  reputable  standing  in  this  enlight- 
ened community. 

The  time  hai  come  when  no  one  can  be  ignorant,  and  still  re- 
■f)criabic.  A  gfKxl  thare  of  knowledge  is  requisite  for  the  daily 
demands  of  society,  in  almost  every  grade  of  life.  The  work-shop, 
the  counting-room,  the  factory,  and  even  the  dar.cing-hall,  as  the 
Otorldgoe^  muA  ha vea  portion  of  modem  intelligence,  to  be  respect- 


able.  If  the  few  mile- stones  I  have  set  up  are  rough-hewn,  and 
the  directions  rudely  sculptured,  the  figures  are  honest,  and  the 
directions  safe  ;  they  pretend  not  to  point  out  the  way  to  Byzan- 
tium, but  only  to  the  next  village. 

My  arrangement  is,  in  a  good  degree,  historical,  in  reference  to 
particular  eras  of  literature,  rather  than  to  general  chronology ;  but 
the  course  I  should  venture  to  recommend  for  the  general  English 
reader,  would  be,  to  make  himself  well  acquainted  with  the  writers 
of  Q,ueen  Anne's  reign,  as  Young,  Addison,  Swift,  Pope,  Parnell, 
Akenside,  Chesterfield,  and  many  others,  are  called ;  and  from  them 
go  up  to  the  earliest  ages  I  have  mentioned,  and  come  down  to  the 
present  day,  enlarging  the  circle  of  reading  until  it  embraces  the 
best  portions  of  English  literature.  I  begin  at  this  point  to  form 
the  sweep  of  the  compass  of  knowledge,  for  it  was  an  age  of  taste 
and  pure  English. 

There  are  some  things  in  this  work  1  have  touched  vipon  before. 
When  I  wrote  my  lectures  on  American  Literature,  I  had  not  con- 
templated this  work ;  and  if  I  had,  I  must  have  given  some  slight 
account  of  English  literature,  in  order  to  come  properly  to  our  ovirn. 
When  I  first  thought,  last  winter,  of  touching  upon  this  wide  field 
of  English  literature,  I  engaged  my  friend,  James  Nack, — a  young 
gentleman  known  to  the  community  for  his  virtues,  his  talents,  his 
acquirements,  and  his  misfortunes,  (being  deaf  and  dumb,) — to 
assist  me  in  the  undertaking.  On  that  plan, — if  we  could  have 
carried  it  into  execution, — our  labours  would  have  extended  to 
several  volumes ;  but  on  consulting  those  wise  in  publications,  they 
discouraged  the  enterprise,  and  I  confined  myself  to  this  small 
volume,  giving  up  all  thoughts  of  going  farther;  and  this  was 
well,  for  it  would  have  been  taking  him  from  the  groves  of  the 
muses  to  drudge  in  the  details  of  literature,  and  me  from  profes- 
sional labours^ — if  not  so  pleasant,  certainly  quite  as  profitable. 

It  has  Jong  been  my  opinion,  that  we  were  greatly  deficient  in 
works  which  might  be  called  directors  of  youth  in  the  paths  of 
knowledge.  I  mean  'those  paths  which  should  be  pursued,  after 
the  elementary  course  of  education  has  been  completed.  I  agree 
that  the  mind  should  not  be  in  leading  strings  long,  but  it  should 
always  be  under  the  direction  of  sound  principles  and  forcible 
aphorisms.  In  the  course  of  life  there  should  be  no  step  taken  with- 
out advice,  and  no  clay  passed  without  its  duties. 

SAMUEL  L,  KNAPP. 
^EW-YoKK,  January,  1832. 


CHAPTER  I. 


"  None, 

But  such  as  are  good  men,  can  give  good  things  ; 
And  that,  which  is  not  good,  is  not  delicious 
To  a  weU-govem'd  and  wise  appetite." — Milton. 

We  are  a  reading  community;  the  press  is  every 
day  teeming  with  works  of  all  sorts,  in  our  mother 
tongue,  of  more  or  less  value  in  forming  the  mind. — 
It  is  not  now  difficult  to  procure  books ;  they  are  scat- 
tered abroad  through  every  city,  town,  and  village  in 
our  extensive  country,  in  great  profusion ;  but  it  often 
happens,  that  the  youthful  mind  is  without  a  guide  in 
this  wilderness  of  sweets,  for  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  but  a 
few  to  have  a  Mentor  always  at  hand  to  point  out  the 
medicined  from  the  poisonous  flower.  The  first  rudi- 
ments of  knowledge  can  hardly  be  called  learning; 
they  only  fit  the  mind  to  receive  itj  nor  do  they  con- 
tain any  directions  for  keeping  the  intellect  sound 
and  healthy.  There  is  no  instinct  in  our  natures  that 
directs  us  to  whatever  is  good  and  wholesome,  as  iu 
the  honey  bee  or  other  humble  creatures  of  earth  or 
air.  If  youths  would  not  wander  without  knowing 
whither,  and  waste  their  time  in  useless  reading,  they 
mtist,  in  some  me:isure,  seek  out  and  trust  to  tliose 
guides  who  have  experience  in  the  pathway  of  know- 
ledge—those who  have  tasted  and  tried  the  qualities  of 
all  that  makes  up  the  literary  bantjuct  which  is  set 
before  them.  This  is  not  all ;  the  necessary  quantity 
of  that  which  is  nutritious  and  desirable  should  be 


8 

known,  for  the  most  proper  and  natural  food  may  be 
taken  so  unadvisedly  as  to  cause  a  surfeit.  It  is  for- 
tunate, however,  that  elementary  education  among 
us  is  so  well  conducted  as  it  is.  There  are  a  few  books 
dedicated  to  the  household  gods,  which  lie  near  the 
cradle  and  are  opened  and  partially  read  without  direc- 
tion or  calculation.  The  Bible  is  among  these,  and  the 
historical  sketches  and  dramatic  incidents  in  that  vo- 
lume, attract  and  fix  the  attention  of  children  at  a  very 
early  age.  This  is  well,  for  the  language  of  the  Bible 
is  pure,  good  English,  and  easily  understood.  And 
even  some  of  the  poetical  descriptions  are  eagerly 
read,  and  although  the  images  left  on  the  mind  are 
indistinct  and  visionary,  still  the  mental  struggle  to 
grasp  them  awakens  the  powers  of  the  imagination, 
opens  the  reasoning  faculties,  and  prepares  the  child  to 
read  and  reflect  on  those  subjects  which  are  presented 
to  him  in  a  different  form,  with  a  wish  for  improve- 
ment. From  a  benevolent  zeal  to  improve  the  rising 
generation,  all  classes  of  men  of  intellect  have  labored 
to  provide  juvenile  books;  and  sometimes,  perhaps, 
these  well-meant  endeavors  push  the  mind  onward 
with  too  much  rapidity,  and  in  this  pressure  of  acqui- 
sition, the  storing  the  memory  may  be  considered  by 
sbme  the  same  thing  as  cidtivating  the  mind ;  but  it  is 
not  precisely  the  same.  The  other  books  about  the 
house  are  in  general  well  calculated  to  improve  his 
memory,  taste  and  judgment ;  so  that  when  the  child 
is  given  up  to  the  school  master  some  foundation  for 
his  future  inclinations  and  pursuits  is  laid.  He  is 
then  confined  to  elementary  knowledge,  and  all  the 
exertion «  of  the  instructor  to  throw  a  charm  around 
geography,  arithmetic,  history  and  philosophy,  amount 


0 

to  but  little  in  the  way  of  making  the  acquisition  of 
knowledge  palatable.  The  strong  stimulant  of  distinc- 
tion is  at  this  period  the  most  efficacious.  Those  who 
are  about  to  prepare  themselves  for  an  active  life  are 
obhged  to  leave  school  when  only  half  their  teens  are 
gone ;  without  restraint  or  direction,  even  with  the 
best  of  habit-s,  their  acquisitions  in  general  knowledge 
are  of  slow  growth.  They  read  merely  for  amuse- 
ment, without  a  thouglit  of  treasuring  a  stock  of  infor- 
mation for  future  use.  They  dislike  to  be  plodding 
when  they  can  recreate  themselves  by  slight  and  care- 
less reading.  The  scope  of  my  remarks,  I  wish  it  to  be 
understood,  is  to  induce  the  youth  to  correct  this  desulto- 
ry habit,  and  to  set  out  right,  and  continue  so,  until  the 
mind  of  the  man  is  formed.  By  method  in  reading,  it  is 
astonishing  how  much  can  be  effected  in  the  course  of 
a  few  years.  The  intellectual  distinction  among  men 
on  the  exchange,  and  in  all  the  business  walks  of  life, 
is  more  owing  to  the  different  ways  in  which  young 
men  pass  their  leisure  hours  from  fifteen  to  thirty  than 
to  any  other  cause.  By  a  rigid  course  of  disciplining 
the  mind  in  these  important  years,  early  defects  may 
be  cured,  and  even  a  common-place  mind  strengthen- 
ed to  sliow  no  ordinary  powers,  while  a  course  of  ten 
years'  negligence  in  reading  will  enfeeble  an  intelbct 
wliich  was  once  thought  vigorous  and  promising. 

The  same  remarks  are  applicable  to  young  ladies;  if 
they  tiirow  aside  their  useful  books  as  soon  as  they  are 
taken  from  school,  and  ramble  through  the  light  read- 
ing of  the  day,  forming  no  plans  for  improving  their 
minds,  they  will  never  come  to  maturity ;  there  will 
be  an  infancy  about  them  even  in  old  age,  while  an 
hcur  or  tAvo  in  a  day  will  keep  them  bright,  increase 
2 


10 

their  stock  of  knowledge,  and  give  a  finish  to  their 
charms,  the  place  of  which  no  fashion  can  supply.  It 
is  only  by  reading  works  of  taste  and  merit  that  a  lady 
can  learn  to  think  right  and  talk  well.  She  in  gene- 
ral has  more  leisure  hours  to  devote  to  literature  than 
young  gentlemen,  and  would  improve  quite  as  fast  as 
they,  if  slie  would  set  about  it.  It  is  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance for  those  just  formmg  and  developing  a  charac- 
ter to  understand  the  duties  of  life— those  that  regard 
one's  self,  and  those  required  by  the  community.  It  is 
true  that  life  is  short  and  science  long,  but  this  should 
be  used  not  to  discourage  the  young,  but  as  an  in- 
ducement to  industry  and  perseverance. 

The  young  should  learn  what  is  meant  by  hterature, 
and  then  look  at  its  value,  and  consider  the  means 
of  its  acquisition,  its  fields,  Ms  importance,  and  the  best 
course  to  pursue  to  acquire  a  sufficiency  of  it  to  re- 
fine and  elevate  the  mind,  to  prepare  us  to  sustain  a  fair 
character  for  intelligence,  and  to  give  each  one  curren- 
cy as  a  well  educated  man  in  the  society  of  this  and 
other  countries.    This  is  the  great  object  of  these  pages. 

Literature,  in  an  extensive  sense — such  as  should  en- 
gage the  attention  of  those  who  intend  to  make  them- 
selves acquainted  with  the  great  duties  of  life — contains 
the  records  of  all  ages  and  countries  ;  the  thoughts  of 
men  in  all  their  struggles  for  knowledge,  and  in  all 
their  inspirations ;  every  thing  that  the  human  mind 
has  contemplated  and  brought  forth  in  a  manner  not 
offensive  to  taste  or  decency.  It  is  this  literature  that 
should  be  studied  and  made  familiar  to  us  all,  in  a  greater 
or  less  degree.  The  advantages  of  having  this  trea- 
sure to  put  our  hands  in,  and'  to  take  from  it  at  will,  is 
incalculable ;  for,  without  letters,  man  was  but  a  sa- 


11 

vage  :  he  knew  nothing  of  the  past,  except  by  memory 
and  tradition ;  the  first  was  deceptive,  and  the  second 
vague  and  unsatisfactory.  Witliout  letters,  knowledge 
of  a  moral  or  an  intellectual  kind  could  not  have  in- 
creased to  any  considerable  extent ;  for  however  ma- 
ture th«j  thoughts  of  one  great  mind  might  have  been, 
he  had  no  means  of  transmitting  his  wisdom  to  poste- 
rity in  any  permanent  form.  He  could  only  give  his 
knowledge  in  keeping  to  the  feeble  and  ordinary  minds 
around  him,  and  instead  of  increasing  the  great  mass 
he  might  have  accumulated,  it  was  generally  lost  or 
frittered  away  after  a  short  period. 

Letters  were  invented  when  man  was  passing  from 
a  savage  to  a  barbarous  state,  on  his  way  to  refinement. 
The  influence  of  the  invention  of  letters  was  soon  seen 
in  the  character  and  conduct  of  those  who  were  fortu- 
nate enough  to  possess  them. 

Those  accustomed  to  darkness  see  much  by  a  little 
light ;  and,  therefore,  it  is  unsafe  to  form  an  estimate 
of  the  knowledge  which  nations  possessed  in  ancient 
times,  by  examining,  at  the  present  day,  the  amount  of 
literature  they  had  acquired.  The  lettered  men  of  the 
early  aj?es  appear  to  us  as  glow-worms  in  the  path- 
way, whose  fires  were  -pale  and  infjfi-ctual  j — but  then 
the  eyes  of  man  were  open  to  discover  every  thing 
around  him,  and  he  saw  things  witliout  any  occasional 
confusion  from  too  miu-h  light  from  any  particular 
quarter,  ns  is  often  the  ca'^e  in  our  time«. 

By  the  influrnce  of  Irltrrs,  man  was  soon  brought 
from  a  barbaroim  state,  to  one  of  comparative  civiliza- 
tion. Society,  by  the  means  of  letters,  .-issumcd  a  more 
elevated  character  than  it  had  borne  before.  By  let- 
ter?, the  poet  perpetuated  the  deeds  of  the  warrior; 


12 

and  by  them,  statesmen  recorded  their  laws,  and  the 
sages  their  maxims  of  wisdom. 

The  sentiments  of  one  age  being  preserved  for  ano- 
ther by  letters,  each  additional  store  enhanced  the  value 
of  the  former  collection ;  for  the  errors  of  the  earlier 
ages  "vvere  corrected  by  the  criticisms  of  the  following  ; 
but  their  blessings  did  not  become  so  generally  diffused 
as  they  have  been  since  the  invention  of  printing  which 
happened  in  a  comparatively  late  age  of  the  world. 

It  has  been  the  object  of  some  reasoners  to  decry  let- 
ters, as  giving  an  effeminacy  to  a  people,  particularly 
polite  literature ;  but  this  reasoning  is  as  amusing  as 
that  of  the  Roman  knights  at  the  supper  of  Lucullns, 
who,  when  revelling  on  a  hundred  dishes  at  the  table 
of  that  luxurious  epicure,  discussed  the  flavor  and  nu- 
tritiousness  of  the  primitive  food  of  man,  such  as 
acorns,  Jigs,  roots,  and  berries,  and  decided  that  man  in 
a  state  of  nature  was  most  happy. 

Without  stepping  out  of  our  way  to  describe  the  ef- 
fect of  letters  upon  past  ages,  or  turning  to  the  pages 
of  those  workswhichitcould  he  proved  had  hvmianized 
the  world,  we  can  say,  in  general,  that  letters  have 
been  the  most  useful,  the  most  glorious,  and  the  most 
permanent  monument  of  national  greatness,  to  be  found 
in  the  history  of  man. 

They  have  been  the  most  useful ;— for  letters  have 
assisted  in  advancing  and  in  preserving  the  arts  and 
sciences,  as  well  as  themselves,  and  in  elevating  the 
eharacter  of  man. 

They  have  been  the  most  glorious  and  permanent ; — 
for  while  the  great  things  of  art  have  crumbled  to  dust, 
and  ten  thousand  demi-gods  have  perished  from  off 
the  earth,  the  letters  of  an  early  age  have  been  pre- 


13 

served ;  and  whatever  names  aie  now  to  be  found 
among  the  mighty  and  the  wise  of  early  time,  come 
down  to  us  emb;dmed  in  the  literature  of  the  age  in 
whicli  tliey  lived,  or  in  which  t^eir  deeds  were  recorded. 
All  the  htUe  princes  and  potentates  of  the  Trojan  and 
Grecian  armies  would  have  been  no  more  known,  if 
they  had  not  been  preserved  in  the  Iliad,  than  the  an- 
cestors of  Red  Jacket,  or  those  of  Tecumsch.  Tlierc 
were  deeds  of  the  aborigines  of  this  country  that  had 
more  of  daring  and  prowess  in  them  than  can  be 
found  in  the  sack  of  Troy.  Letters  live  longer  than 
temples  or  monumental  arches.  The  prayer  of  Solo- 
mon, at  the  dedication  of  the  Temple,  is  stiU  preserved 
in  aU  it£!  piety  and  sweetness,  but  the  house  of  the 
Lord  is  demolished,  and  the  angels  who  guarded  it 
have  ascended  to  their  celestial  abodes. 

It  is  wiser,  in  the  first  place,  to  examine  the  history 
of  our  native  language,  and  to  ascertain,  as  far  as  is 
practicable,  the  treasures  of  knowledge  we  have  in  it; 
they  are  abundant  and  of  great  value.  These  treasures 
are  ours  by  birthright ;  they  were  won  by  mental  toil 
from  age  to  age ;  preserved  and  improved  by  deep 
thinkers  and  patient  reasoners,  who  were  proul  of  their 
nation,  and  who  scorned  to  have  their  tongues  tied, 
even  by  their  conquerors.  Taste,  philosophy,  divinity, 
politics,  and  eloquence  ask  for  nothing  more  than  can 
be  found  in  the  English  language.  Should  not  the 
writers  in  English  be  our  constant  study? 

Our  hmguage  is  indeed  a  modern  one  compared  with 
some  other  living  languages.  Notwithstanding  its  co- 
piousness, it  is  still  a  growing  and  improving  lan- 
guage, and  is  yet  su.'»ceptible  of  new  beauties ;  but  we 

deprecate  a  rage  for  changing  that  which  is  already  so 

2» 


14 

admirable.  Let  us  not  be  in  haste  to  make  it  more 
copious.  The  English  language  has  a  singular  origin, 
and  one  that  shows  more  decidedly  what  the  spirit  of 
a  people  can  effect  silently  m\d  quietly,  by  the  force  of 
intellectual  power,  than  that  of  any  event  in  history. 

The  Saxon  language  was  in  general  use  in  the  Island 
of  Great  Britain  in  1066,  when  the  conquest  of  Wil- 
liam of  Normandy  was  effected.  It  was  a  copious  and 
well  constructed  language,  and  had  much  more  phi-, 
losophy  in  it  than  that  brouglit  from  Normandy  ;  but 
the  conqueror  insisting  on  his  right  to  change  the  lan- 
guage, as  well  as  the  laws  of  the  people,  had  all  his 
recordsand  laws  put  into  Norman  French.  The  Saxon 
legends  were  now  turned  into  Norman  rhyme,  and 
•within  a  century  after  the  conquest,  a  new  language,, 
made  from  the  Saxon  and  Norman,  had  grown  up  ta 
no  inconsiderable  character,  which  took  the  name  of 
the  English  language.  The  Saxons  had  more  inven- 
tion and  more  sound  philosophy  than  the  Normans, 
and  their  mind  was  seen  in  this  new  and  wonderful 
work  most  distinctly.  Layman  wrote  some  where  be- 
tween the  years  1135  and  1180.  His  works  show  more 
than  any  other  of  his  age,  how  far  the  new  language 
had  advanced  towards  its  present  excellence.  In  the 
course  of  the  time  from  1200  to  1300,  the  process  of 
improvement  was  going  on  rapidly.  There  is  extant 
a  dialogue,  written  between  this  period,  after  Layman's 
time,  between  an  owl  and  a  nightingale,  disputing  for 
superiority.  This,  much  more  decidedly  than  the 
Avorks  of  Layman,  shows  the  great  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  growth  of  our  language. 

In  1300,  or  thereabouts,  Robert  de  Branne  wrote  a 
history  of  England  in  metre.    He  composed  tales  in 


15 

Terse.  He  was  a  man  of  genius,  a  satirist,  but  not  des- 
titute of  tenderness,  and  was  full  of  romance'.  Some  of 
his  works  having  been  five  hundred  years  in  manu- 
script, have  lately  been  printed  for  the  gratification  of 
the  curious. 

From  1300  to  1400 — a  century — was  the  reign  of 
romances.  The  devotion  of  all  classes  to  them  was 
great  as  it  is  in  the  present  day.  Then,  as  no^v,  they 
were  paramount  to  all  other  literature.  King  Arthur, 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  Amadis  de  Gaul,  were  subjects 
of  romance.  Young  ladies  learned  to  write  for  the 
sake  of  copying  these  works  ;  and  when  printing  was 
discovered,  these  works  soon  issued  from  the  press  as 
rapidly  as  possible.  These  romances  were  seen  and 
read  m  the  groves  of  learning  as  well  as  in  the  alcoves 
of  taste  and  beauty,  as  the  Waverley  Novels  now  are 
found  not  only  at  the  toilet  of  the  reigning  belle,  but 
in  the  study  of  the  grave  statesman  and  solemn  divine. 
Under  proper  directions  this  may  not  be  an  evil.  When 
the  sold  is  waked  by  all  the  tender  strokes  of  art,  the 
genius  inspired  by  master  touches  of  fancy,  and  the 
whole  current  of  thought  is  elevated  by  the  deep  know- 
ledge q{  human  nature  in  these  productions  of  the 
imasination,  who  can  resist  the  desire  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  their  contents?  But  this  taste  is 
sometimes  found  to  degenerate  to  a  cormorant  appetite 
for  the  whole  mass  of  fictions,  of  every  hue  and  quali- 
ty. This  excess  is  full  of  evils,  and  as  deleterious  to  the 
wholesome  desire  for  knowledge,  in  a  plain  and  honest 
form,  as  confectionary  is  to  our  natural  desire  f(jr  i)lain 
and  8uccul(;nt  food  to  sustain  our  animal  frames.  Tliis 
vitiated  taste  is  to  be  deplored  ;  but,  to  our  comfort,  it 
often  happens  that  a  surfeit  cures  what  rea.son  will  not. 


16 

If  these  romances  did  not  exactly  grow  out  of  the 
ages  of  chivalry,  they  were  matured  by  them,  and  lasted 
until  the  wit  of  Cervantes  had  laughed  them  down,  or 
the  habits  of  man,  as  well  as  his  manners,  had  changed. 
If  these  romances  were  the  offsprings  or  the  nurslings 
of  chivalry,  ours  had  no  such  origin  or  nursing  ;  for 
although  these  fictions  of  ours  grew  up  in  an  age  of 
wonders,  they  did  not,  in  most  instances,  relate  to  them 
directly  or  indirectly.  The  fictions  of  the  present  day 
owe  their  popularity  to  two  causes  ;  the  first,  the  power 
of  the  genius  and  learning  of  the  writers,  for  if  not  the 
first  and  most  voluminous  of  these  works,  certainly  one 
of  the  sweetest  tales  of  the  whole  of  the  mass  is  John- 
son's Rasselas.  It  was  followed,  after  some  length  of 
time,  by  Godwin's  St.  Leon,  Caleb  Williams,  and  others 
of  the  same  school ;  but  it  was  reserved  for  Sir  Walter 
Scott  to  become  the  legitimate  sovereigTi  of  the  world 
of  fiction.  To  this  throne  he  was  elected  and  anoint- 
ed by  public  opinion,  and  probably  will  hold  his  em- 
pire without  a  brother  near  him  for  some  ages  to  come. 
The  second  cause  of  this  universal  passion  for  fiction, 
or  novels  founded  on  fact,  (a  sort  of  deceptive  epi- 
thet, to  cheat  those  who  wish  to  become  acquainted 
with  history,  and  who  have  not  the  courage  to  sit  down 
and  study  it,)  is  the  general  appetite  for  reading,  now 
so  distinctly  abroad  in  England  and  this  country ;  and 
which,  instead  of  being  regulated  and  directed  to  par- 
ticular objects,  is  desultory  and  miscellaneous,  as  we 
have  before  remarked.  The  progress  in  the  arts,  and 
the  multiplicity  of  inventions  of  labor-saving  machines, 
have  given  leisure  to  millions,  who  in  former  days  de- 
voted themselves  principally  to  industrious  methods  for 
producing  clothing  or  food. 


17 

But  to  return  from  this  digression  to  the  current  his- 
tory of  English  literature.  It  may  be  unnecessary  for 
us  to  notice  any  other  authors  than  those  we  have 
named,  until  the  time  of  Chaucer,  from  whom  English 
poetry  generuUy  lias  taken  the  date  of  its  birtli ;  but  if 
time  permitted,  we  could  show  that  there  was  taste,  and 
genius^  and  ■poetry,  before  the  time  of  this  bard.  Still, 
however,  he  is  justly  entitled  to  the  appellation  of  the 
'•  Father  of  English  poetry,''''  from  the  fact,  that  he 
effected  a  revolution  in  poetry  similar  to  that  effected 
by  Shakspeare  in  the  drama,  or  Scott  in  the  noveL 
Before  Chaucer,  poetry  was  only  descriptive,  and  nar- 
rative, without  distinct  character.  The  poets  of  his 
day  seemed  to  have  no  objects  in  their  narrative  poems, 
except  to  tell  a  wonderful  story.  The  persons  con- 
cerned in  their  incidents  were  regarded  as  mere  ma- 
chines, only  proper  to  give  these  incidents  a  sort  of 
connexion.  These  poets  presented  us  not  with  men 
and  women,  but  with  adventures  that  might,  or  might 
not  have  happened  to  men  and  women ;  and  if  they 
even  gave  us  a  glimpse  of  the  characters  introduced 
into  their  story,  it  was  only  by  accident,  and  even  then, 
only  the  most  ])rominent  features  could  be  discovered. 
"  Chaucer  reformed  this  altogether.  He  devoted  his 
principil  attention  to  the  dehneation  of  his  characters  ; 
he  made  the  incidents  of  his  story  all  tend  to  the  illus- 
tration of  the  actors  in  it.  He  did  not  merely  sketch 
one  or  two  of  the  most  prominent  features.  lie  drew 
a  full-length,  and  laid  on  the  appropriate  colors.  He 
made  every  thing  distinct,  even  to  the  most  delicate 
shadowing.  As  his  characters  glide  before  us,  we  for- 
get it  is  an  illusiop ;  we  exclaim,  '  They  live — they 
move — they  breathe — they  are  our  fellow-creatures,' 


18 

and  as  such  awaken  our  sympathies  to  a  degree  that 
imparts  to  the  story  a  far  more  intense  interest  than  it 
could  derive  from  the  most  romantic  incidents. 

None  of  Chaucer's  characters  can  be  confounded 
with  one  another ;  numerous  as  they  are,  each  has  its 
dramatic  features  ;  no  action  is  ascribed  to  one  which 
might  as  well  be  expected  of  another.  In  this  respect 
Chaucer  is  a  dramatic  poet,  and  one  of  the  highest  or- 
der ;  indeed  a  distinguished  critic  has  drawn  an  inge- 
nious parallel  between  a  regidar  comedy  and  the  series 
of  the  Canterbury  tales.' 

Lord  Byron,  in  his  journal,  intimates  that  we  reve- 
rence Chaucer  not  for  his  poetry,  but  for  his  antiquity, 
and  passes  a  criticism  upon  him  as  dull,  and  vulgar, 
and  obscene ;  but  this  was  before  *he  noble  poet  wrote 
Don  Juan,  or  probably  when  he  had  read  only  some 
of  Chaucer's  first  pieces.  If  he  had  ever  read  him 
thoroughly,  in  his  maturer  years,  he  probably  would 
have  recalled  his  opinion ;  most  certainly  if  he  were 
too  proud  to  have  done  this,  he  would  have  reversed 
his  judgment ;  at  least,  he  would  not  have  called  him 
dull,  whatever  else  he  might  have  said  of  the  "  Father 
of  English  poetry^  We  wish  not  to  be  misunderstood 
as  defending  Chaucer  in  all  his  freedoms ;  but  these 
freedoms  were  the  errors  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 
Indecency  in  that  day  was  often  taken  for  wit ;  and  at 
the  present  time  is  often  substituted  for  it.  We  can 
have  but  little  to  say  on  that  score,  against  our  ances- 
tors, when  we  tolerate  the  poems  of  Little,  and  the 
freedoms  in  some  of  Byron's  later  works.  Moore  has 
atoned  in  some  degree  for  his  songs,  by  his  sacred  me- 
Jodies  ;  but  who  can  forgive  him  for  exhibiting  Byron 
in  perpetual  moral  deformity,  rioting  in  the  polluted 


19 

saloons  of  Venetian  fascination  and  depravity.  Chau- 
cer is  not  without  other  faults  common  to  his  age.  The 
authors  of  his  period  were  apt  to  encumber  their  sto- 
ries with  minute  descriptions,  which,  however  juat  or 
beautiful,  became  tedious,  by  having  nothing  to  do  with 
the  subject.  The  writers  seem  not  to  have  been  aware 
that  misplaced  beauties  lose  their  charms. 

In  closing  our  remarks  upon  this  poet — and  we  have 
ibeen  somewhat  minute,  as  lie  stands  confessedly  at  the 
head  of  the  catalogue  of  English  poets— we  must  say, 
that  for  his  comic  and  satirical  vein,  he  was  superior 
to  all  his  predecessors  and  his  contemporaries.  He 
knew  the  delicate  from  the  eoarse.  and  could  easily 
distinguish  between  keen  and  vigorous  satire,  and  vul- 
gar abuse ;  between  the  club,  the  tomahawk,  and  the 
flaying-knife  of  the  savage— and  the  shafts  of  "  the 
lord  of  the  unerring  bow," 

Many  works  have  been  charged  to  Chaucer  which 
he  never  wrote,  and  therefore  he  should  not  be  answer- 
able for  them.  The  great  talents  of  Dryden  and  Pope, 
in  their  versions  of  Chaucer,  have,  it  must  be  confessed, 
given  him  some  new  charms';  but  at  the  same  time,  we 
must  Say,  that  \i\  getting  rid  of  some  of  his  peculiari- 
ties, they  have  obscured  many  of  his  great  beauties. 
To  be  relished,  the  works  of  Chaucer  should  be  read 
in  the  original,  and  with  the  accent  intended  by  the 
author.  That  such  pods  as  Dryden  and  Pope  should 
have  thought  this  early  poet,  nf  a  rude  age,  worthy 
imitation,  is  saying  how  much  they  venerated  his  me- 
mory as  a  poet. 

Chancer  was  a  pr)litifi:ui,  as  well  as  a  poet.  He  was 
sent  an  ambassador  to  the  Tfonv  of  Venice,  in  1370. 
He  was  for  many  years  in  favor  with  Kdward  III, 


20 

but  lost  his  good  will,  and  was  imprisoned  by  him ; 
but  on  the  accession  of  Henry,  was  restored  to  favor, 
and  died  in  1410,  eighty-two  years  of  age. 

John  Gower  was  senior  and  contemporary  ta  Chau- 
cer. He  wrote  some  worlvs  before  Chaucer.  He  was 
a  favorite  with  Edward  II.  He  wrote  much,  and  was 
considered  the  first  moral  poet  of  his  age.  He  dis 
ciplined  the  minds  of  his  countrymen,  for  he  was  a 
philosopher,  as  well  as  a  poet.  His  English  is  mor% 
correct  than  Chaucer's."  He  was  a  better  grammarian 
than  Chaucer.  His  tales  had  matter  in  them,  for  Turner 
says  that  modern  bards  have  founded  many  of  their 
tales  on  his.  To  be  truly  original,  is  not  the  lot  of  any 
man.  Who  is  there  that  can  say,  this  sentence,  or  this 
thought,  or  this  production,  is  all  my  own  1  No  one. 
Art,  and  science,  and  letters,  are  progressive ;  none 
but  a  well  stored  mind  can  produce  any  thing  worth 
remembering,  and  every  well  stored  mind  is  pregnant 
with  the  best  thoughts  of  his  predecessors.  Genius 
does  not  consist  so  mucli  in  originating  thoughts,  as  in 
giving  new  force  to  those  already  known. 

Gower  has  a  most  splendid  monument  in  St.  Sa- 
vior's Church,  at  Southwark.  See  description  of  it 
in  the  English  Mirror  of  Literature,  Vol.  13,  p.  225. 

John  the  Chaplain,  as  he  was  called,  did  much  in 
giving  form  and  beauty  to  the  English  language.  He 
lived  in  the  reign  of  Henry  IV. 

Thomas  Occleve  soon  followed  Chaucer,  and  acknow- 
ledged him  as  his  father  in  poetry.  He  too,  was  a 
grammarian,  and  a  philosopher,  and  was  patronized  by 
Henry  IV,  and  by  his  son,  the  famous  Hal — Henry  V. 
He  was  a  poet,  and  a  good  moralist.  These  men  did 
much  towards  fixing  the  English  language,  but  his 


21 

patron,  the  fifth  Harry,  was  too  much  engaged  in  wars, 
and  had  too  short  a  reign  to  become  distinguished  as  a 
patron  of  letters.  His  own  poet  did  not  give  him  his 
true  glory.  It  was  reserved  for  an  after  age  to  do  him 
justice.  Some  sketches  of  liis  times  were  worked  up  hy 
Shakspeare,  whicli  have  brouglit  down  to  us  this  wild, 
elegimt,  and  gifted  l*riiice,  in  a  blaze  of  light.  His  great- 
ness was  developed  after  he  had  sown  the  wild  oats  of 
his  youtli.  Ocdeve  was  a  business  man,  and  his  labors 
as  a  secretary  were  of  great  service  to  the  government. 
It  is  pleasant  to  mark  the  utility  of  the  labors  of  these 
men  of  minstrelsy  of  early  days.  Society  may  be 
compared  to  an  inverted  pyramid,  supported,  not-  by 
the  laws  of  gravitation,  but  by  the  hand  of  Deity,  of 
which  every  human  being  forms  one  stone  of  the  great 
mass,  and  on  this  great  mass  he  may  write  his  charac- 
ter; and  leave  it,  if  he  have  time,  ability,  and  opportu- 
nity, for  posterity.  If  Occleve  was  cold,  he  was  sensi- 
ble, and  such  men  are  often  destined  to  live  longer  than 
many  of  more  fire.  He  was  probably  too  much  of  a 
business  man  to  think  of  immortality  as  a  poet. 

Lydgate,  his  contemporary,  was  of  a  more  sensitive 
cast.  He  even  complained  of  critics,  and  his  is  the  first 
mention  of  that  TM•^^  of  men,  so  common  in  our  day, 
asexisting  in  England.  Tiie  ancients  had  known  tliem. 
The  very  existence  of  criticism  is  a  proof  tii:it  some 
mental  light  exists,  for  we  cannot  declare  that  to  be 
confnsed,virregular,  and  tasteless,  without  light  enough 
to  see  it.  Tliere  was  no  very  enlightened  criticism, 
however,  in  England,  until  a  much  later  period  of  her 
history  than  the  time  of  lAilgalc. 

The  English  nation  followed  in  part  the  practice  of 
Ilalv  of  eiving  the  laurel  crown  to  the  best  poet  of  the 


country.  In  Italy  the  pomp  of  the  ceremony  wag- 
half  of  the  charm  of  the  acquisition.  In  England  the 
laurel  was  only  a  poetical  wreath :  but  sometimes  at- 
tended with  a  hogshead  of  malmsey  or  port  and  some 
pieces  of  substantial  gold. 

The  first  poet  laureate,  that  the  books  I  have  exa- 
mined on  the  subject  mention,  is  John  Kay,  in  the 
reign  of  Edward  IV.  The  universities  of  England  had, 
probably,  their  laureates  before  this  period.  There  is 
not  a  vestige  left  of  the  poetry  of  laureate  Kay.  Some 
of  his  prose  translations  are  extant. 

This  poetical  distinction  from  the  earliest  days  in 
England  has  not,  in  itself,  given  immortality  to  any 
one ;  for  a  greater  portion  of  those  crowned,  have  been 
of  the  second  or  third  rate  poets,  who  happened  to  be 
in  court  favor.  The  sycophant  who  prostituted  his 
muse  to  the  courtier  was  recommended  to  the  king, 
and  his  majesty  not  always  being  the  best  judge  of 
poetry,  was  either  deceived  in  the  talents  of  his  poet, 
or  loved  the  pliancy  of  his  poet's  muse.  Wlien  Shad- 
well  was  made  poet  laureate,  in  preference  to  Dry- 
den,  and  Pye  has  received  the  crown  as  above  his  con- 
temporary brothers  of  song,  who  will  ever  say  that 
the  laurel  is  proof  of  superiority  in  sense  or  rhyme  ? 

In  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,  something  was  done  for 
English  literature,  rather  by  indirection  than  by  direct 
influence.  Barclay  had  written  without  taste  or  judg- 
ment, but  was  nevertheless  distinguished,  and  in  vogue 
when  Henry  received  his  education.  Barclay  was 
a  moralist,  and  so  far  was  well :  of  nature  he  knew  no 
more  than  a  very  cit  does  of  the  country.  Skelton, 
his  rival,  received  the  Oxford  laurel.  Erasmus  praised 
him  J  he  pronounces  him  the  "  Brittannicarum  litera- 


23 

Tum  lumen  et  decus ;"  but  a  foreigner's  opinion  of 
native  literature  is  not  worth  mucli,  except  he  speaks 
the  same  language  with  great  accuracy,  even  if  he  be 
as  great  a  man  as  Erasmus  himself.  Skelton  was 
vehement,  and  vehemence  is  sometimes  an  indication 
of  genius,  but  not  a  proof  of  it.  Lord  Surry  follow- 
ed him,  and  was  an  ornament  to  the  reign  of  Hen- 
ry VIII.  Surry  had  more  polish  than  all  his  pre- 
decessors. Many  works  of  his  were  graceful  and 
natural.  He  translated  a  portion  of  Virgil  into  blank 
-verse.  Surry  may  be  considered  the  father  of  blank 
verse,  in  English  ;  which  kind  of  verse  reached  the 
fulness  of  its  glories  in  Milton ;  but  which  has  held  its 
high  rank  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  poetical  measure. 
It  is  susceptible  of  magnificence,  ea.se,  sweetness; 
and  of  nearly  all  the  euphony  of  rhyme.  It  is  suited 
rather  to  the  didactic  and  the  tragic,  than  to  the 
sprightly,  and  the  mmic  mu.se:  but  there  can  be  no 
perlect  canons  of  criticism  for  exuberant  genius,  team- 
ing with  inspiration.  Writers  in  prose  should  be  taken 
notice  of  as  well  as  those  in  verse,  in  our  notice  of  the 
progress  of  -our  mother  tongue,  and  our  native  train 
of  tltotisiht.  The  first  among  the  number  Mas  tlie  re- 
nown*^ traveller.  Sir  John  Mandeville.  He  was  liorn 
at  St.  Albans,  1300.  He  was  well  educated,  and  {)os- 
sesiw-d  an  ardent  curio.sity  to  see  other  countries  ;  such 
a  curiosity  as  in  more  modern  times  j)Ossesse(l  the 
breasts  of  our  extraordinary  Ledyard,  and  the  Kuclish 
MuHKo  Park.  He  .set  out  on  his  travels  in  llWi,  and 
was  a  wanderer  for  thirty-four  years.  He  was  hardly 
kni(wn  on  his  return  ;  the  frrace  of  manly  beauty  had 
ch;t\tii*'(\  to  the  cray  hairs  of  age.  He  had  swej)t  over 
a  great  porticm  of  Asia  JVIirtor,  Asia  aihl  Africa,  and 


24 

brought  back  most  wonderful  tales,  more  of  which  are 
believed  at  this  day,  than  were  then.  Whatever  he 
says  he  saw  may  be  generally  believed.  It  is  that  part 
of  his  history  that  recounts  the  legends  he  had  learnt, 
which  is  among  the  marvellous. 

These  accounts  falling  into  the  possession  of  the 
ecclesiastics  of  that  day,  made  them  desirous  of  visiting 
the  Holy  Land.  The  continent  was  not  behind  Eng- 
land in  travellers.  The  Mirahellia  Mwtdi^  were  stu- 
died by  all  who  could  read,  and  commmiicated  to  those 
who  could  not;  and  it  may  be  said  that  the  public 
mind  was  inflamed  for  oriental  wonders.  These  tra- 
vels excited  the  reading  community  of  those  days,  and 
thousands  read  who  had  not  enthusiasm  and  courage 
enough  to  become  travellers.  Mandeville  was  acquaint- 
ed with  many  languages ;  and  he  sent  his  book  into  the 
world  in  three  different  tongues. 

In  the  thirteenth  century,  Ralph  Higden  had  compi- 
led in  Latin,  a  chronicle  of  events,  which  was  uansiatea 
by  Trevisa.  It  is  made  up  of  history,  fiction,  and  tradi- 
tions, such  as  he  found,  but  probably  he  did  not  add 
any  thing  to  them.  There  are  some  fine  sketches  of 
natural  character  in  this  work,  particularly  of  the  Irish 
and  Welsh.  This  author  translated  portions  of  the 
Bible,  at  the  instance  of  a  patron  of  learning — Lord 
Berkely.  It  does  not  appear  that  this  translation  or 
any  portion  of  it  is  now  extant. 

Not  long  after  Trevisa,  followed  Wickliffe — the  pio- 
neer in  English  history,  of  bold  and  liberal  doctrines. 
He  was  learned, and  distinguished  in  college  halls; 
having  been  a  professor  of  divinity  at  Oxford.  He 
felt  the  influence  of  a  master  spirit,  and  came  out  upon 
various  orders  of  friars  with  the  indignant  feeling  of  a 


25 

hater  of  abuses,  and  scourged  them  with  the  strong 
hand  of  a  reformer.  For  his  temerity  he  lost  liis  of- 
fice, by  the  authority  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canltrbu- 
ry;  he  appealed  from  him  to  the  Pope;  and  finding 
the  Pope  no  friend,  he  came  out  in  full  force  aguinst 
His  Holiness.  He  was  "  a  root  and  branch  man.'''' 
The  Popes  pursued  liis  memory  with  such  malice,  that 
thirty  years  after  his  death,  Martin  V  issued  a  b>ill  to 
dig  up  his  bones  and  uhnnv  them  en  a  dung-hill. 
>Miat  impotent  malice!  Wickliffe  'Avas  a  voluminous 
writer;  his  English -is  among  the  best  of  his  age.  He 
may  be  truly  considered  the  founder  of  -the  Protestant 
relijiion,  for  he  gave  the  people  the  -word  of  God  in 
their  vernacular,  and  they  were  anxious  to  read  it. 
"Wickliffe  was  sound  in  all  the  doctrines  of  the  Protes- 
tant faith. 

The  work  containing  those  portions  of  the  Old  and 
New  Testament  translated  by  Wickliffe,  has  come 
down  to  us,  and  is  now  a  curiosity;  and  not  less  so 
from  its  being  the  fountain  of  the  Biblical  knowledge 
of  many  of  our  ancestors,  who  were  not  acquainted 
-svith  the  original  language  of  the  Scriptures.  He  died 
sixteen  years  before  Chaucer,  a  younger  man  at  his 
death  'than  the   poet. 

Mandeville,  Wickliffe,  and  Gower,  were  styled  "the 
three  evangelists  of  our  tongue,"  but  still  these  were 
considered  ns  inferior  to  Chaucer;  and  to  continue  the 
language  of  the  quotation—"  though  all  elder  in  birth 
than  Chaucer,  yet  they  did  not  begin  so  early  t<>  work 
upon  the  ore  of  their  native  lai\guage."  These  writers 
had  genius,  and  language  becomes  plastic  in  tlieliands 
of  thfse  ereat  ma.««ters  of  tliouglit  and  expression. 
Bi.-^hop  Peacock  wu.s  a  learned  writer  of  this  age, 
3* 


26 

and  his  works  added  more  to  the  English  language 
than  they  did  to  theology,  or  his  own  happiness.  He 
was  a  tolerant  sensible  man,  and  of  course  persecuted 
in  that  age. 

Divinity  alone  did  not  monopolize  the  reformers  of 
style,  language  and  taste  of  that  age ;  the  law  puts  in 
claims  also.  Sir  John  Fortesaie,  an  eminent  lawyer, 
was  a  distinguished  writer  of  that  age.  He  was  ho- 
nored by  the  king,  but  was  a  portion  of  his  life  an  ex- 
ile. He  was  a  learned  lawyer  and  a  fine  scholar,  and 
is  the  first  English  writer  I  know  of,  who  has  given  a 
distinction  between  a  limited,  and  what  is  called  an 
absolute  monarchy.    Sir  John  is  the  pride  of  lawyers. 

We  corae  now  to  a  period  in  which  it  may  be  said 
that  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  of  knowledge  were 
broken  up,  and  the  floods  of  light  and  intelligence  fell 
upon  the  children  of  men.  This  period  is  that  of  the 
invention,  or  rather  of  the  use  of  printing.  The  indi- 
vidual who  brought  printing  into  England,  and  issued 
from  his  press  any  thing  English,  was  William  Cax- 
ton.  He  was  learned  and  zealoug  in  the  cause  of 
learning.  He  was  taught  the  sublime  art  of  printing 
in  Holland,  and  brought  it  to  his  native  land  in  the 
year  1474.  The  first  book  printed  in  England  was 
*'  The  Game  of  Chess."  In  four  years  afterwards  a 
press  was  established  at  Oxford,  and  not  long  after,  at 
St.  Albans.  Caxton  printed  many  books;  some  of  his 
editions  have  come  down  to  us,  besides  Wickliffe's  Bi- 
ble. He  was  a  sincere  lover  of  literature.  Caxton  did 
much  for  the  language  of  his  native  country,  while 
many  others  were  busy  in  ancient  literature.  He 
printed  the  Chronicles  of  England.  These  chronicles 
were  legendary  tales — full  of  romance,  and  generally 


-as  far  from  elegance  as  from  truth ;  they  had  often 
the  absuniities  of  the  Arabian  tales  without  any  consi- 
derable share  of  their  genius  or  character.  But  they 
were,  no  doubt,  illegitimatedescendantsof  that  stock  of 
literature.  These  tales  have  an  Arabic  physiognomy 
about  them,  but  sufficient  only  to  show  the  family 
likeness. 

It  is  clear  to  every  mind,  from  looking  at  the  early 
history  of  every  civilized  country,  that  ballads  and 
tales,  and  chronicles,  in  the  nature  of  ballads  and  tales, 
were  the  first  specimens  of  literature;  and  that  these 
rose  to  the  dignity  of- poems  and  histories  as  the  mass 
of  the  people  made  progress  in  intelligence  ;  and  if  any 
writer  was  in  advance  of  his  age,  that  his  works  were 
neglected  until  the  great  body  of  the  people  reached  his 
standard.  When  the  taste  for  these  compositions  grew 
too  rapidly  for  the  supply  of  native  works,  a  disposi- 
tion fur  translation  was  cultivated,  so  that  the  spirit  of 
one  nation  was  virtually  infused  into  another;  hence 
the  similarity  of  thoughts  and  expressions  of  passion 
which  are  found  in  different  languages,  and,  perhaps, 
after  a  lapse  of  years,  it  was  difficult  to  say  whence 
this  or  that  sentiment  originated. 

Soon  as  printing  had  quickened  the  appetite  of  the 
people,  the  supply  of  letters  was  equal  to  the  demand; 
this  is  the  law  of  every  market.  The  expulsion  of  the 
Greek  scholars  from  Constantinople,  then  the  most 
learned  men  of  the  world,  gave  lecturers  and  school- 
masters to  all  Europe.  At  this  moment  the  convents 
gave  up  their  classical  treasures,  and  learned  commen- 
taries followed  each  other  innipid  succession  j  all  !)our- 
ing  from  the  press  unrh-r  the  fostering  care  of  the 
nobility,  who  began  to  have  a  taste  for  learning.     The 


28 

uhiverslties  were  agitated  to  their  very  foundation ; 
particularly  the  university  of  Oxford.  This  seminary, 
conspicuous  in  all  the  ages  of  English  literature,  had 
its  factions.  The  reformers  took  the  appellation  of 
Greeks^  and  the  supporters  of  the  old  system  that  of 
Trojans.  All  these  discussions,  and  excitements,  and 
quarrels,  were  productive  of  great  good.  In  this  col- 
lision of  minds  are  found  the  scintillations  of  genius; 
imfortunately,  however,  the  niceties  and  subtleties  of 
scholastic  divinity  retarded  the  progress  of  taste  and 
letters,  for  the  fierce  contentions  of  angry  polemics 
have  seldom  but  little  to  do  with  expansion  or  refine- 
ment. 

Sir  Thomas  More,  the  author  of  the  Eutopia,  was 
one  of  the  very  great  men  of  that  age.  He  was  born 
in  1480.  He  was  educated  in  the  best  manner  of  the 
times.  He  was  a  man  of  first  rate  talents,  and  was  call- 
ed to  discharge  many  high  and  important  duties  as  a 
public  functionary.  He  was  undoubtedly  pre-eminent 
even  among  the  great  scholars  of  his  time.  Sir  Tho- 
mas invited  Erasmus  to  visit  England,  and  conferred 
on  this  great  scholar  and  wit,  many  signal  marks  of 
his  favo-r  and  friendship. 

From  his  exalted  genius  and  official  stations,  he 
might  be  considered  as  the  first  literary  character  of  his 
time,  not  only  in  England,  but  in  Europe.  He  was 
skilled  in  all  classical  learning ;  but  what  is  more  to 
our  purpose,  his  English  was  the  most  copious,  cor- 
rect, and  elegant,  of  all  the  literati  of  the  age.  He  had 
drank  deeply  of  the  wells  of  knowledge,  and  his  verna- 
cular had  the  benefit  of  his  draughts.  He  was,  in  wri- 
ting English,  rather  making,  than  looking  for  a  standard. 
It  is  well  for  the  world  when  such  men  as  Sir  Thomas 


29 

More  are  found  to  direct,  and,  in  a  measure,  fix  tl»e 
taste  of  an  age.  If  he  labort'd  for  the  beau  ideal  in  po- 
litics, and  our  experience  lias  never  found  his  republic, 
yet  he  left  thoughts  tliat  ;ire  imperishable,  embalmed  in 
words  of  taste  and  beauty. 

"Wilson,  the  rhetorician,  deserves  to  be  remembered 
among  tlie  sturdy  advocates  of  English  literature.  He 
lived  in  several  reigns,  but  was  most  conspicuous  in 
tliat  of  Elizabeth.  Jle  printed  his  work,  on  rhetoric  in 
the  first  year  of  Mary's  reign,  1553.  It  was  entitled 
"  The  Art  of  Rhetoric,  for  the  use  of  all  such  as  are 
studious  of  eloquence — set  forth  in  English,  by  Thomas 
Wilson."  This  work,  says  Burnett,  in  Iiis  specimens 
of  English  prose  writers,  may  justly  be  considered  as 
the  first  system  of  criticism  in  our  language.  He  de- 
scribes the  four  parts  of  elocution — pluinuess,  aptness, 
cnni])osition,  and  ea-amiuation.  He  is  a  sturdy  cham- 
pion for  the  free,  bold,  good  use  of  our  mother  tongue. 
WiLson  is  a  philosopher  who  reasons  and  fccla  rightly. 
He  read  nature  and  the  poets  with  a  true  spirit  of  criti- 
cism. His  ndes  for  declamation  are  admirable,  and 
such  as  every  great  orator  has  followed — that  is,  in 
making  a  speech  for  a  departed  great  man,  to  .summon 
up  the  soul  and  character  of  the  deceased,  and  make 
them  speak  out.  His  defence  of  figurative  language 
deserves  to  be  held  in  remembrance.  "Some  time 
(says  he)  it  is  good  to  make  God,  the  country,  or  some 
one  town,  to  sprjak  ;  and  look  what  we  would  say  in 
our  own  person,  to  frame  the  wliole  tale  to  them.  Such 
variety  doclh  much  good  to  avoid  tediousness;  for  he 
who  speaketh  all  things  in  one  sort,  though  he  speak 
ihings  ever  so  wittily,  shall  soon  weary  his  hearers. 
Figured,  therefore,  were  invented  to  avoid  satiety  and 


90 

cause  delight ;  to  refresh  with  pleasure  and  quicken 
with  grace  the  dullness  of  man's  brain.  WTio  will  look 
on  a  white  wall  an  hour  together,  where  no  workman- 
ship is  at  all  ?  Or  who  will  eat  one  kind  of  meat  and 
never  desire  a  change  7" 

Wilson's  rules  for  composition  are  good  and  sound. 
He  abhors  all  aftectation  in  composition.  He  calls  on 
writers  to  take  every  thing,  old  and  new,  for  the  pur- 
poses of  excitement,  illustration,  and  effect,  and  work 
them  to  the  best  advantage.  This  was  not  all ;  he 
translated  much  of  Greek  literature,  and  particularly 
from  Demosthenes.  His  rules  contain,  in  fact,  all  the 
great  principles  incorporated  in  the  best  and  boldest 
modern  compositions. 

The  lettered  men  of  the  age  seem  not  to  have  been 
confined  to  courts  or  college  halls.  William  Fullward, 
a  merchant  in  1555,  or  somewhere  thereabouts,  wrote  a 
work  he  called  the  "  Enemy  of  Idleness,  teaching  the 

rnanuer  and  style  how  to  endite  and  write  all  sorts  of 
epistles  and  lelt«-s."    This  was  partly  in  verse. 

The  reign  of  Edward  was  full  of  polemic  discus- 
sions, and  the  muses  slept  on  the  dull  and  ponderous 
tomes  of  laborious  ecclesiastics.  The  reign  of  his  suc- 
cessor, Mary,  was  still  more  unpropitious  to  literature. 
The  just,  in  her  time,  were  persecuted,  and  the  learned 
silenced.  Some  of  the  brightest  geniuses  of  the  na- 
tion were  made  immortal  at  the  stake.  The  stake  was 
fixed  and  the  faggot  dried  in  every  part  of  the  land  for 
the  service  of  God  alone,  an  avenging  God,  as  he  was 
taught  to  the  people.  The  English  Bible  was  pro- 
scribed, and  it  was  treason  and  death  to  be  found  drink- 
ing at  the  well  of  eternal  life.  Those  who  were  not 
prepared  for  martyrdom  fled.    "  To  turn  or  burn,"  was 


31 

the  fate  of  every  Protestant.  It  may  be  said  of  her 
reign,  that  every  sun  rose  and  set  in  blood.  At  matins 
and  vespers  the  crimson  torrent  flowed,  and  with  the 
curfew's  knell  were  mingled  the  groans  of  expiring 
saints. 

In  1558,  Elizabeth  came  to  the  throne.  The  reign 
of  terror  had  indeed  at  her  accession  passed  away,  but 
the  elements  of  society  were  still  in  no  small  confu- 
sion. The  exiled  clergy  returned  from  Holland,  which 
had  been  their  asylum  during  the  lifetime  of  Mary. 
They  came  home  deeply  imbued  with  the  doctrines  of 
the  great  reformer,  Calvin,  and  fierce  discussions  were 
held  by  the  Protestants  and  those  of  the  Church  of 
England.  These  very  discussions  had  in  the  end  a  be- 
neficial effect,  although  very  troublesome  at  the  time. 
The  minds  of  men  grew  robust  by  these  wars  of  intel- 
lect, when  they  went  no  farther  than  fiery  altercations. 
The  scriptures  were  now  read  by  all  classes  of  the  peo- 
ple. It  has  been  the  good  fortune  of  reading  commu- 
nities at  all  times  to  find  a  love  of  inquiry,  and  a  taste 
for  knowledge,  growing  out  of  the  reading  of  the  scrip- 
tures. 

The  love  of  learning  was  not  confined  to  the  clergy 
alone,  but  was  found  extending  to  all  ranks  of  society, 
particularly  among  the  higher  orders.  The  ladies 
caught  tlie  enthusiasm,  and  became  admirable  profi- 
cients in  classical  learning.  Lady  Jane  Grey,  as  well 
as  the  queen,  were  illustrious  examples  of  female  taste 
and  acquirements  of  that  day.  They  were  all  ac- 
quainted with  household  affiiins,  while  celebrated  school- 
masters were  learning  them  to  construe  Greek.  The 
learned  men  were  busy,  at  the  same  time,  in  translating 
the  most  valuable  works  in  other  languages  for  the 
English  reader. 


32 

This  excitement  produced  some  matters  of  learning 
in  bad  taste  ;  but  after  a  few  years,  things  became  set- 
tled, and  sound  judgment  corrected  the  errors  which  en- 
thusiasm had  scattered  among  her  brilliant  productions, 
Spenser  and  Shakspeare  now  arose,  with  a  host  of 
mighty  minds,  in  the  several  walks  of  learning,  which 
left  their  stamp  on  the  age,  as  imperishable  as  the  Eng- 
lish language  itself. 

This  was  the  age  of  English  literature,  from  which 
our  literature  emanated.  It  was  tinged,  no  doubt,  with 
a  portion  of  the  polemic  severity  which  belonged  to 
the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,  and  Edward  VI,  and  which 
came  down  to  later  times ;  but  there  was  a  depth,  a 
strev^th,  and  boldness,  in  the  intelligence  of  those  days, 
which,  if  it  has  in  some  measure  been  polished  by  time, 
was  from  the  same  stock  as  that  of  the  reformers  ;  and, 
thank  heaven,  it  ran  on,  gaining  purity,  and  losing  none 
of  its  virtues,  for  a  century  and  a  half  after  it  had  been 
found  in  this  country.  I  freely  grant,  that  the  litera- 
ture, as  it  came  to  us  at  that  time,  had  not  the  polish  of 
the  literature  of  the  present  day  ;  but  it  was  Avell  calcu- 
lated to  prepare  our  fathers  for  the  great  labors  of  body 
and  mind  which  they  xvere  called  to  perform.  The  dif- 
ference between  the  literature  of  that  day  and  the  pre- 
sent, I  mean  that  which  is  current  among  a  majority  of 
the  community,  is  this — theh'  literature  was  best  to  form 
the  mind  ;  ours  to  Jill  it.  From  theirs  grew  resolution, 
'perseverance,  and  faith,  and  all  that  gave  hardihood 
and  energy  to  character.  In  ours,  there  are  extensive 
and  liberal  views  of  society,  a  great  accumulation  of 
facts,  much  refinement  of  taste,  and  an  abundance  of 
topics  for  conversation.  They  read  much,  we  many 
things.    In  our  course  of  training  the  mind,  we  should 


83 

look  back,  as  well  as  go  forward  ;  we  should  make  our- 
selves masters  of  the  past  ages  of  knowledge,  as  well 
as  possessors  of  the  floods  of  light  which  are  now  pour- 
ed in  upon  us.  I  glory  in  seeing  colleges  arise,  and  the 
corner-stones  of  universities  laid ;  but  these  institu- 
tions alone  will  never  make  a  literary  people  of  us. 
This  great  object  can  only  be  effected  by  enlightening 
the  conmnniity  at  large.  There  were  no  great  artists 
in  Greece  or  Italy  until  a  good  taste  was  generally  dif- 
fused among  them.  To  bring  us  to  a  high  standard  of 
literature,  female  enthusiasm  and  taste  must  be  brought 
in  aid  of  the  cause.  Letters  must,  before  that  day 
comes,  take  the  place  of  a  thousand  trifling  amusements 
that  now  fill  up  the  measure  of  time  that  can  be  spared 
from  important  duties.  These  portions  of  time,  even 
if  they  are  mere  shreds,  may,  by  method  and  perseve- 
rance, be  made  up  into  something  of  importance.  The 
good  housewife,  by  carefully  saving  the  shreds  as  she 
makes  up  her  family  wardrobe,  and  by  occupying  some 
of  her  leisure  hours  iu  sewing  them  together,  is  soon 
ready  for  a  quilting-match — a  union  of  industry  and 
amusement.  Then  starts  from  the  frame  a  variegated 
patch-work  of  a  thousand  pieces,  of  all  hues — a  com- 
furler  m  the  cold  and  storms  of  wintry  time — a  thing 
twice  blest,  in  the  industry  of  her  who  made  it,  and  in 
the  gratitude  of  those  made  happy  by  its  warmth. 

Literature,  to  have  its  full  effect,  must  be  generally 
diff'used.  It  must  not  be  confined  to  any  class  of  the 
community,  but  open  to  ail,  and  encouraged  by  all. 
We  must  not  look  for  the  spirit  of  literature  in  the  pul- 
jjit  and  halls  of  legislation,  or  school-rooms  only  ;  but 
must  find  it,  like  the  sweet  breeze  of  the  sununer's 
mom,  in  all  our  walks,  and  in  all  our  household  do- 


S4 

mains,  passing  from  the  library  to  the  toilet,  from  the 
toilet  to  the  nursery,  and  there  kindling  the  eye  of  the 
mother  and  opening  the  cherubic  lips  of  the  infant. 


CHAPTER  II. 

We  come  now  to  the  age  of  Elizabeth.  Spenser 
was  the  first  poet  who  was  pre-eminently  distinguished 
in  the  reign  of  the  virgin  queen.  He  was  a  well  edu- 
cated man.  He  found  himself  a  poet  in  the  midst  of 
some  affair  of  the  heart.  His  effusions  were  so  much 
admired,  that  some  kind  friend  made  him  acquainted 
with  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  the  Mecaenas  of  the  age.  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  was  also  his  friend  and  patron.  Spen- 
ser, as  well  as  some  of  the  earlier  poets,  was  employed 
by  government,  and  received  a  liberal  support  from 
persons  in  power.  He  died  at  the  early  age  of  46 ; 
earl}-  for  one  who  had  Avritten  so  much.  His  works 
are  voluminous.  The  Fairy  Queen  is  at  the  head. 
This  great  labor  of  Spenser  is  said  to  be  Avanting  in 
plan.  This,  however,  the  reader  forgets,  in  the  lovely 
personifications  of  his  author.  The  muse  never  suffered 
him  to  slumber,  if  she  sometimes  led  him  through  the 
labyrinth  of  flowers,  until  his  imagination  was  bewil- 
dered. The  characteristic  traits  of  the  Fairy  Queen 
are  imagery^  feeling;  and  melody  of  versification.  His 
imitators  have  been  numerous  in  every  age  of  poetry 
since,  and  many  of  these  imitators  became  his  equals, 
and  some  his  superiors.  Milton  openly  avowed  his 
obligations  to  Spenser,  and  Beattie  built  his  Minstrel 
upon  Spenser's  models.    Many  men  of  literary  renowK 


35 

have  become  his  cominoiitators.  Hurd,  Justin,  Upton, 
Thomas  \Varlon,  and  Pope.  Hurd  says  tl\at  Spen- 
ser's Fairy  Queen  is  rather  a  Gotliic  than  a  classical 
poem.  It  is  too  deeply  tinged  with  the  I ight so v.ie  fan- 
cies of  Ariosto,  to  be  strictly  Gothic.  Pope  said  of  the 
works  of  Spenser,  that  he  read  them  with  as  much  de- 
lijrht  in  his  old  age,  as  he  did  in  his  youth. 

Spenser  venerated  Chaucer,  and  alTocted  his  ancient 
language.  This,  some  might  think  was  well,  or  at  least 
tliat  this  antiquarian  spirit  did  not  injure  the  sweetness 
of  his  lines. 

Some  years  after  the  death  of  Spenser,  Ann,  Coun- 
tc:ss  of  Dorset,  erected  a  monument  in  Westminster 
Abbey  to  his  memory.  To  be  honored  by  tlie  great 
when  living,  and  venerated  and  admired  by  beauty  and 
taste  when  dead,  was  the  fate  of  Spenser  •,  one  which 
seldom  falls  to  the  lot  of  poets  or  historians. 

It  is  more  fashionable,  at  the  present  day,  to  imitate 
the  stanza.s  of  Spenser,  than  those  of  any  other  poet  in 
the  English  language.  They  are  capable  certainly  of 
great  beauty,  and,  in  the  hands  of  genius  and  skill,  may 
be  succinct  or  open,  terse  or  expanded,  as  the  occasion 
may  require. 

Spenpcr  was  born  in  15.53.  and  was  eleven  years  se- 
nior to  Shakspeare ;  and  as  printing  was  the  rage  at 
that  lime,  the  great  bard  of  nature  was  probably  ac- 
quainted with  the  Fairy  Queen  and  other  works  of 
Spenser.  The  following  extracts  from  Spenser  are 
taken  from  his  various  works  without  regard  to  con- 
vex if>n. 


36 

DESCRIPTION  OF  PRINCE  ARTHUR. 

At  last  she  chanced  by  good  hap  to  meet 
A  goodly  knight,  fair  marching  by  the  way, 
Together  with  his  squire,  arrayed  meet : 
His  glittering  armour  shined  far  away, 
Like  glancing  light  of  Phoebus'  brightest  ray; 
From  top  to  toe  no  place  appeared  bare. 
That  deadly  dint  of  steel  endanger  may : 
Athwart  his  breast  a  bauldric  brave  he  ware, 
That  shin'd  like  twinkling  stars,  with  stones  most 
precious  rare. 

And  in  the  midst  thereof  one  precious  stone 
Of  wondrous  worth,  and  eke  of  wondrous  mights, 
Shap'd  like  a  lady's  head,  exceeding  shone, 
Like  Hesperus  amongst  the  lesser  lights, 
And  strove  for  to  amaze  the  weaker  sights  ; 
Thereby  his  mortal  blade  full  comely  hung 
In  ivory  sheath,  ycarv'd  with  curious  slights  ; 
Whose  hilts  were  burnish'd  gold,  and  handle  strong^ 
Of  mother  pearl,  and  buckled  with  a  golden  tongue^ 

His  haughty  helmet,  horrid  all  with  gold. 
Both  glorious  brightness  and  great  terror  bred ; 
For  all  the  crest  a  great  dragon  did  enfold 
With  greedy  paws,  and  over  all  did  spread 
His  golden  wings ;  his  dreadful  hideous  head 
Close  couched  on  the  beaver,  seem'd  to  throw 
From  flaming  mouth  bright  sparkles  fiery  red, 
That  sudden  horror  to  faint  hearts  did  show  ; 
And  scaly  tail  was  stretched  adown  hisback  full  ioww 

Upon  the  top  of  all  his  lofty  crest 

A  bunch  of  hairs  discolour'd  diversely. 


"NVith  sprinkled  pearl,  and  gold  full  richly  dress'd,' 

Did  sliake,  and  seem'd  to  dance  for  jollity, 

Like  to  an  almond  tree  ymounted  high 

On  top  of  green  Selinis  all  alone, 
\  With  blossoms  brave  bedecked  daintily  ; 
,'  \Miose  tender  locks  do  tremble  every  one 
i  At  every  little  breath  that  under  heaven  is  blown. 

DESCRIPTION  OF  BELPHEBE. 

Her  face  so  fair  as  flesh  it  seemed  not,  ^ 

But  heavenly  portrait  of  bright  angels'  hue, 
Clear  as  the  sky,  withouten  blame  or  blot, 
Through  goodly  mixtures  of  complexions  due  ; 
And  in  her  cheeks  the  vermeil  red  did  shew 
Like  roses  in  a  bed  of  lilies  shed, 
The  which  ambrosial  odours  from  them  threw, 
And  gazers'  sense  with  double  pleasure  fed. 
Able  to  heal  the  sick,  and  to  revive  the  dead. 

In  hcT  fair  eyes  two  living  lamps  did  flame, 

Kindled ^bove  at  th'  heavenly  maker's  light, 

And  darted  fiery  beams  out  of  the  same. 

So  passing  piercing,  and  so  wondrous  bright, 

That  quite  bereav'd  the  rash  beholder's  sight ; 

In  them  the  blinded  god  his  lustful  fire 

To  kindle  oft  eesay'd,  but  had  no  might ; 

For  with  dread  majesty,  and  awful  ire, 

She  broke  his  wanton  darts,  and  quenched  base  desire. 

Her  ivory  forehead,  full  of  bounty  brave. 
Like  a  broad  table  did  itself  dispread. 
For  love  his  lofty  triumphs  to  engrave. 
And  write  the  battles  of  his  great  godhead ; 
4* 


38 

All  good  and  honour  might  therein  be  read  ; 

For  there  their  dwelling  was.     And  when  she  spake. 

Sweet  words,  like  dropping  honey,  she  did  shed, 

And  twixt  the  pearls  and  rubies  softly  brake 

A  silver  sound,  that  heavenly  music  seem'd  to  make:. 

•Upon  her  eyelids  many  graces  sate, 

Under  the  shadow  of  her  even  brows, 

Working  belgards,  and  amorous  retreat, 

And  every  one  her  with  a  grace  endows ; 

And  every  one  with  meekness  to  her  bows* 

So  glorious  mirror  of  celestial  grace, 

And  sovereign  monument  of  mortal  vows. 

How  shall  frail  pen  describe  her  heavenly  face, 

For  fear,  through  want  of  skill,  her  beauty  to  disgrace!! 

So  fair,  and  thousand  thousand  times  more  fair 
She  seemed,  when  she  presented  was  to  sight. 
And  was  yclad  (for  heat  of  scorching  air) 
All  in  a  silken  camus,  lily  white, 
Purfled  upon  with  many  a  folded  plight 
Which  all  above  besprinkled  was  throughout 
With  golden  agulets,  that  glistered  bright, 
Like  twinkling  stars,  and  all  the  skirt  about 
Was  hemmed  Avith  golden  fringe. 

Drayton  was  bom  in  1563,  and  died  in  1631.  He 
wrote  with  great  taste  and  beauty  for  that  age.  He  was- 
a  man  of  learning,  and  took  great  pride  in  it;  and  from 
his  subjects,  and  from  the  names  of  the  persons  to  whom 
they  were  addressed,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  he  lived  much 
in  the  gay  world.  His  writings  are  numerous,  and 
abound  in  beautiful  descriptions ; — that  of  the  Lady 
Geraldine  is  not  surpassed  by  any  other  of  his  brothers 
of  song  in  a  later  period. 


39 
DESCRIPTION  OF  LADY  GERALDINE. 

When  for  thy  love  I  left  the  Belgic  shore, 
Divine  Erasmus,  and  our  famous  More, 
Whose  happy  presence  gave  me  such  delight, 
As  made  a  minute  of  a  winter's  night ; 
With  whom  a  while  I  staid  at  Rotterdame, 
Not  so  renowed  by  Erasmus'  name : 
Yet  ever>'  hour  did  seem  a  world  of  time, 
Till  I  had  seen  that  soul-reviving  clime, 
And  tliought  the  foggy  Netherlands  unfit, 
A  wafry  soil  to  clog  a  fiery  wit. 
And  as  that  wealthy  Germany  I  past, 
Ck)ming  unto  the  Emperor's  court  at  last, 
Great-learn'd  Agrippa,  so  profound  in  art. 
Who  the  infernal  secrets  doth  impart, 
When  of  thy  health  I  did  desire  to  know, 
Me  in  a  glass  my  Geraldine  did  show. 
Sick  in  thy  bed ;  and  for  thou  could'st  not  sleep, 
By  a  wax  taper  set  the  light  to  keep  ; 
I  do  remember  thou  di  J'st  read  that  ode, 
Semback  whilst  I  in  Thanct  made  abode, 
^V'herc  when  thou  cam'st  unto  that  word  of  love, 
Ev'n  in  thine  eyes  I  saw  how  passion  strove  : 
That  snowy  lawn  which  covered  thy  bed, 
Melhought  look'd  white,  to  see  thy  cheek  so  red  ; 
Thy  rosy  cheek  oft  changing  in  my  sight, 
Yet  still  was  red,  to  see  the  lawn  so  white  : 
The  little  taper  which  should  give  the  light, 
Melhouglrt  wax'd  dim,  to  see  thy  eyes  so  bright  j 
Thine  eye  again  su[iply'd  the  taper's  turn,  . 
And  with  his  beams  more  brightly  made  it  burn : 
Tlif  shrugging  air  about  thy  temples  hurls, 
And  wrapt  thy  breath  in  little  clouded  curls, 


40 

And  as  it  did  ascend,  it  straight  did  seize  it, 

And  as  it  sunk  it  presently  did  raise  it. 

Canst  thou  by  sickness  banish  beauty  so, 

Which,  if  put  from  thee,  knows  not  where  to  go 

To  make  her  shifts,  and  for  succour  seek 

To  every  rivel'd  face,  each  bankrupt  cheek  1 

"  If  health  preserved,  thou  beauty  still  dost  cheri^ ; 

If  that  neglected,  beauty  soon  doth  perish." 

Care  draws  on  care,  woe  comforts  woe  again, 

Sorrow  breeds  sorrow,  one  grief  brings  forth  twain, 

If  live  or  die,  as  thou  do'st,  so  do  I ; 

If  live,  I  live ;  and  if  thou  die,  I  die ; 

One  heart,  one  love,  one  joy,  one  grief,  one  troth, 

One  good,  one  ill,  one  life,  one  death  to  both. 

If  Howard's  blood  thou  hold'st  as  but  too  vile, 
Or  not  esteem'st  of  Norfolk's  princely  stile  ; 
If  Scotland's  coat  no  mark  of  fame  can  lend, 
That  lion  plac'd  in  our  bright  silver  bend, 
Which  as  a  trophy  beautifies  our  shield, 
Since  Scottish  blood  discolour'd  Floden  field ; 
When  the  proud  Cheviot  our  brave  ensign  bare. 
As  a  rich  jewel  in  a  lady's  hair. 
And  did  fair  Bramston's  neighboring  vallies  choke 
With  clouds  of  cannons  fire-disgorged  smoke ; 
If  Surrey's  earldom  insufficient  be. 
And  not  a  dower  so  well  contenting  thee  : 
Yet  I  am  one  of  great  Apollo's  heirs. 
The  sacred  Muses  challenge  me  for  theirs. 
By  Princes  my  immortal  lines  are  sung, 
My  flowing  verses  grac'd  with  ev'ry  tongue : 
The  little  children  when  they  learn  to  go, 
By  painful  mothers  daded  to  and  fro. 
Are  taught  by  siigar'd  numbers  to  rehearse. 
And  have  their  sweet  lips  season'd  with  my  verse. 


41 

Wlicn  heav'n  would  strive  to  do  the  best  it  can, 
And  put  an  angel's  spirit  into  man, 
The  utmost  power  it  hath,  it  thou  doth  spend, 
AVhen  to  tlie  world  a  Poet  it  doth  intend, 
Tliat  little  difT'renoe  'twixt  the  gods  and  us, 
(By  them  confirm'd)  distinguished  only  tlius: 
Whom  they  in  i)irth  ordain  to  happy  days, 
The  gods  commit  their  glory  to  our  praise; 
T'  eternal  life  when  they  dissolve  their  breath, 
We  Ukewise  share  a  second  pow'r  by  death. 

^^^len  time  shall  turn  those  amber  locks  to  gray, 
My  verse  again  shall  gild  and  make  them  gay, 
And  trick  them  up  in  knotted  curls  anew. 
And  to  thy  autumn  give  a  summer's  hue; 
That  sacred  power,  that  in  my  ink  remains, 
Shall  put  fresh  blood  into  thy  withered  veins, 
And  on  thy  red  decay 'd,  thy  whiteness  dead. 
Shall  set  a  white  more  white,  a  red  more  red : 
When  thy  dim  sight  thy  glass  cannot  descry. 
Nor  thy  craz'd  mirror  can  discern  thine  eye  ; 
My  verse,  to  tell  th'  one  what  the  other  was, 
Shall  represent  them  both,  thine  eye  and  glass: 
Where  botli  thy  mirror  and  thine  eye  shall  see, 
What  once  thou  saw'st  in  that,  that  saw  in  thee ; 
And  to  them  both  shall  tell  the  simple  truth. 
What  that  in  purenesB  was,  what  thou  in  youth. 

Among  the  prose-writers  of  the  reign  of  f^lizabeth, 
her  schoolmaster  should  not  be  forgotten.  Roger  As- 
charn  wrote  elegant  F^nglisb.  free  from  quaintness  and 
affectation,  or  startling  antithenis  so  common  in  his 
day.     Aflcham  regarded  the  Aristotelian  maxim,  as  ex- 


42 

pressed  by  himself.  "  He  that  will  write  well  in  any 
tongue,  must  speak  as  the  common  people  do,  think  as 
wise  men  do ;  as  so  should  every  man  understand  him, 
and  the  judgment  of  wise  men  allow  him." 

This  tutor  of  queens  wrote  a  work  he  called  The 
School)naste7\  It  is  a  fine  treatise  on  education,  and 
contains  all  the  elements  which  are  foimd  in  the  mo- 
dern treatises  upon  that  subject.  He  was  for  uniting 
the  Gymnasia,  the  Lyceum,  and  the  Academy  together ; 
only  he  did  not  name  the  workshop,  as  Pellendorff  and 
others  have  since  done,  in  systems  of  education.  It  is 
said,  by  one  of  his  biographers,  that  Ascham  became  a 
Protestant  through  the  medium  of  Greek  hterature.  He 
was  an  admirer  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  and  followed  his 
example  in  bringing  out  his  works  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. He  was  one  of  the  formers  of  the  literary  cha- 
racter of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  she  having  been  known 
as  a  scholar  of  his,  previous  to  her  coming  to  the  throne. 
He  was  born  in  1515,  and  lived  ten  years  into  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth. 

John  Fox,  the  ecclesiastical  historian,  was  only  two 
years  younger  than  Ascham.  He  was  an  instructor  of 
youth  and  a  proof-reader  for  the  German  presses.  He 
wrote  the  lives,  or  rather  the  accounts  of  the  Martyrs. 
This  has  been  held  in  great  veneration  by  the  Protes- 
tants of  England  and  this  country  ever  since  ;  but  it  is 
more  the  subject  than  the  power  of  the  historian  that 
interests  us,  in  reading  his  gloomy  history.  He  was, 
however,  a  very  accurate  scholar  in  the  learned  lan- 
guages, and  wrote  very  good  English. 

Many  good  prose-writers  were  at.  this  time  to  be 
found  in  England.  Hollhigshed,  Sir  Philip  Sidney, 
whose  name  we  have  before  mentioned,  and  Raleigh, 


43 

were  fine  writers ;  the  two  latter,  politicians,  soldiers, 
and  men  of  the  world.  Selby,  Cecil,  Stow,  KiioUes, 
and  Agard,  wrote  works  of  fancy  and  history,  and  were 
great  benefactors  to  the  nation.  But  wc  nui-<t  not  pass 
over  so  hastily  the  works  of  Ricliard  Hooker.  The 
great  work  of  this  distinguished  scholar  and  sound  di- 
vine was  his  Ecclesiastical  Polity.  He  wrote  many 
other  works ;  but  this  has  come  to  us,  a  fine  argument, 
and  one  that  did  much  towards  settling  the  disputes  on 
religious  subjects  in  tliose  days.  The  work  is  read 
now  by  all  students  iu  divinity  who  wish  to  make 
themselves  reasoners  in  theology.  Like  Butler's  Ana- 
logy, of  a  later  date,  this  work  is  found  in  the  hands  of 
the  young  physicians  and  lawyers,  as  they  are  nuurking 
out  the  <;reat  outlines  of  their  professional  course.  In 
sucli  works  there  is  matter  and  forms  of  reasoning 
which  every  professional  man  should  be  master  of.  He 
handled  the  Puritans  with  great  power  and  eflFect,  yet 
he  had  been  honored  and  respected  by  the  most  en- 
lightened of  them  ever  since.  They  acknowledged 
the  style  of  Hooker's  works  to  have  been  superior  to 
any  thing  in  the  English  language  before  Bacon's  works 
appeared.  It  is  persjjicuous,  forcible,  elevated,  and 
manly.  The  mind  of  Hooker  was  rich  in  thoughts, 
original  and  acquired,  and  liis  soul  was  evidently  in  his 
works.  It  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  model  for  modern  wri- 
ters ;  and  evident  traces  of  Hooker's  influences  may  be 
found  in  the  style  of  Chatham,  Burke,  and  other  states- 
men. 

It  is  almost  impopsihle  to  speak  of  Shakspearc,  with- 
out falling  into  some  errors  of  taste,  feeling,  or  criti- 
cism, nor  do  we  export  entirely  to  shun  them.  He 
was  truly  the  poet  of  nature.     He  w:ls  born  a  few  years 


44 

before  Elizabeth  came  to  the  throne  of  England.  He 
was  a  sprightly  country  lad  when  first  known,  who 
had  excited  some  attention  by  his  talent  at  versifying. 
In  some  wild  frolic,  he  trespassed  on  the  hunting- 
grounds  of  a  rich  neighbor.  This  indiscretion  was  fol- 
lowed up  by  a  lampoon  on  the  same  gentleman.  There 
Wcis  much  scurrility  in  his  satire,  at  that  time,  but  no 
great  proofs  of  genius.  The  subject  of  the  verse  was 
indignant,  and  threatening  vengeance,  young  Shak- 
speare  fled  to  London,  and  probably,  went  directly  to 
the  theatre,  for  he  had  a  townsman  on  the  boards,  and 
perhaps  a  relation.  The  story  of  his  holding  horses 
at  the  door  of  the  theatre,  or  bearing  torches  to  light 
the  lovers  of  the  drama:  to  their  seats,  is  all  done  away 
with  by  the  late  commentaries  upon  his  works.  These 
were  the  gossipings  of  his  early  admirers,  who  loved 
the  marvellous  changes  in  the  destinies  of  men.  The 
probability  is  that  he  took  some  small  employment  in 
the  business  of  the  stage,  until  his  talents  as  a  dramatic 
writer  became  in  some  measure  developed.  He  was 
born  1564,  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  or  more,  when 
he  went  to  London,  and  in  five  years,  some  say  seven, 
he  was  distinguished  as  a  dramatic  writer ;  so  that  his 
progress  must  have  been  rapid.  The  queen  was  fond 
of  plays,  but  the  dramatic  writers  of  a  previous  age 
had  been  wretched,  and  any  thing  that  bore  the  marks 
of  nature,  or  genius,  was,  in  the  nascent  growth  of  the 
stage,  readily  discovered,  and  acknowledged.  He  lived 
easily,  that  is,  comfortably,  and  on  acquiring  a  compe- 
tency, retired  to  his  native  village,  satisfied  with  what 
he  had  done ;  but  heaven  did  not  suffer  him  long  to 
enjoy  his  well  earned  ease,  for  he  died  on  his  birth- 
day, April  23,  1616,  aged  52.    There  were  but  eleven 


45 

of  his  plaj-s  in  print  at  his  death  ;  nor  were  his  plays 
collected  until  seven  years  after  this  period.  During 
the  whole  of  the  seventeenth  century  there  were  but 
four  editions  of  his  plays  printed.  He  was  admired 
by  the  court  in  the  reign  of  James,  and  Charles  the 
first  and  second.  Our  ancestors,  particularly  ihc  puri- 
tans who  came  to  this  country,  did  not  favor  the  drama 
in  any  shape  or  form,  but  engaged  themselves  to  put 
down  all  theatricals,  although,  in  Christian  days,  these 
dramas  were  first  got  up  by  the  appendages  of  religious 
institutions.  It  was  until  nearly  or  quite  a  century 
had  elapsed  from  the  death  of  Shakspeare,  before  we 
find  a  quotation  from  his  works  in  any  American  au- 
thor ;  and  strange  as  it  may  seem,  in  about  half  a  cen- 
tury after  Shakspeare's  death,  we  hear  the  great  John 
Dryden  gravely  saying,  that  Shakspeare  was  growing 
obsolete.  They  then  did  not  feel  what  we  do,  that  the 
pyramids  will  crumble  to  the  dust,  and  the  Nile  be  dry, 
and  the  Ethiop  change  his  skin,  and  the  leopard  his 
spots,  before  Shakspeare  will  grow  obsolete  with  us. 
He  looked  on  man,  and  at  once  became  master  of  the 
inmost  recesses  of  his  soul,  as  it  were  by  intuition.  He 
saw  the*  defects  of  character  at  once,  as  well  as  the 
brighter  parts  ;  and  all  the  advantages,  as  well  as  the 
absurdities  of  customs  and  laws,  he  struck  off  as  though 
each  one  had  been  the  study  of  his  life.  There  is  no 
variety  of  character  in  the  lists  of  men,  that  he  did  not 
portray  at  full  length,  or  give  its  semblance  by  profile, 
glance,  or  shadow.  Sometnnp.->i  he  pamted  wiih  car*;, 
and  at  otli(;r  tunes  he  trarrd  with  a  luirricd,  but  une»- 
ririg  hand.  The  Dramatic  Muse  brought  him  to  the 
great  fountain  of  her  mspirations,  and  as  he  bent  fo 

quaff  the  waters,  he  saw  all  the  nature',  moral,  politi- 
6 


46 

cal,  and  intellectua!  world,  reflected  in  the  pure  mirror, 
which  attracted  his  vision  ;  aye,  and  otlier  worlds  be- 
yond this,  were  there  also — for  he  "  exhausted  worlds, 
and  then  imagined  new." 

Tlie  English  language  was  at  that  time,  copious,  and 
rich,  but  not  precisely  fixed  :  nor  was  the  philosophy 
of  its  etymology  very  distinctly  miderstood. 

Shakspeare  was,  classically  speaking,  an  uneducated 
man,  for  he  had  not  been  allowed  to  drink  of  the  sweet 
fountains  of  ancient  learning  ;  but  he  lived  at  a  period 
when  much  of  this  literature  had  been  done  into  Eng- 
lish, by  learned  men.  He  had  devoured  all  the  tales, 
romances,  legends,  and  novels,  that  were  to  be  found 
in  English  ;  nor  did  his  readirig  stop  there  ;  he  was  also 
deeply  read  in  such  histories  as  were  then  exlan/t,  and 
lie  particularly  studied  biography.  He  is  seldom  wrong 
\n  an  incident,  act,  or  a  matter  of  fact.  He  sometimes 
takes  liberties  with  both,  but  he  clearly  shows  you  that 
he  is  master  of  both.  When  Shakspeare  was  a  school- 
boy, tlie  pre^s  had  been  teeming  with  vernacukir  lite- 
rature— either  original  productions  or  translations — for 
a  century,  and  he  had  the  advantage  of  all  this.  These 
works  were  sufficient  to  set  him  to  thinking  and  wri- 
ting, and  his  mind  was  free  from  all  shackles.  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  logic  of  the  schoolmen,  nor  was 
lie  bound  to  regard  their  rules.  He  was  indebted  to 
no  Ahm  Mater  for  nursing  him  in  learning. 

Shak^rpeare  took  his  words  from  the  connuon  peo- 
ple^ that  is  from  all  classes  in  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 
ano  from  those  booKs  wruien  for  popular  reading.  He 
ha(i  but,  little  assistance  from  dictionaries,  for  but  few 
l.ad  'urned  their  gttentiomto  the  making  of  dictiona- 
ries, noi  could  this  be  expected,  while  a  language  was 


47 

fluctualing.  The  memory  of  the  poet  was  richly  stored 
viih  words — good,  domestic,  household  words — in  his 
mother  longae,  and  he  had  enough  of  the  grammar  of 
it,  for  all  his  purposes.  His  thoughts  were  all  new 
creations,  however  uuich  he  might  be  indebted  to  old 
ones  for  begetting  thtm;  and  he  clothed  them  as  tjie 
fallen  ones  did  themselves  in  paradise — with  a  fig-leaf, 
a  hon's  skin,  or  any  thing  they  chose,  or  considered 
best  for  the  purpose  ;  and  his  taste  has  stood  the  test 
of  every  age  since  his  own.  lie  understood  human 
nature,  and  he  wisely  wrote  for  two  purposes,  in  some 
sort  to  please  those  of  his  own  times,  and  to  secure  all 
those  who  should  come  after  him.  With  Shakspeare, 
posthumous  fame  never  seemed  to  be  a  passion.  lie 
rather  felt  sure  of  it,  than  panted  after  it ;  he  that 
could  so  well  judge  of  the  present  and  the  past,  could 
easily  see  what  was  to  come.  He  took  no  pains  for 
monument,  or  epitaph,  but  simply  said  to  those  he  left 
behind  him,  spare  my  hotih.  His  mental  strength 
seemed  to  be  used  as  playfully  as  the  physical  strength 
of  the  Nazarite,  who  chose  to  slay  the  Philistines  with 
a  jaw  bone  of  an  ass,  rather  than  draw  his*sword — and 
Shaksppare  preferred  to  kill  his  enemies  with  a  gibe, 
rather  than  with  an  argument.  Samson's  power  only 
cnished  his  enemies — Shakspeare's  gave  distinct,  and 
certain  immortality  to  his  friends,  and  all  (hose  he 
chose  to  consider  worth  preserving. 

Other  men  share  the  throes  of  composition  ;  and 
even  those  which  are  dedicat-d  to  iWomus,  and  all  the 
lanjrliter-loving  train,  have  some  lines  of  mental  mo- 
lanclioly  about  them.  Not  so  with  Shakspeare.  Yet  (o 
suppose  that  those  productions  were  not  of  profound 
thought,  would,  indeed,  be  Idle.  Ho  meditated,  not  only 


48 

at  noon,  in  the  field,  but  in  the  dark  watches  of  the 
night.  He  read  nature,  from  season  to  season,  and 
man  in  every  hour  of  his  existence ;  but  there  was 
about  his  doing  this,  tlie  mild  complacency  of  a  supe- 
rior being,  not  the  swollen  muscle,  and  bursting  veins 
of  the  gladiator  ;  nor  was  it  ever  known  that  he  rolled 
his  eye  in  frenzy,  although  he  glanced  from  heaven  to 
earth,  and  answered  his  own  description  of  a  poet,  as 
to  the  mental  part  of  it. 

"  And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation,  and  a  name." 

This  was  all  done  by  Shakspeare,  without  effort ;  or  at 
least  without  the  appearance  of  it.  The  ancients  made 
Apollo  calm  and  composed  in  all  his  deeds ;  no  agita- 
tion ever  was  seen  in  the  actions  of  the  far-darting 
Apollo.  So  of  Shakspeare  ;  he  never  foamed,  or  was 
cast  to  the  earth  ;  or  wildly  gazed  on  the  heavens,  or 
threw  up  ejaculations  to  superior  powers  ;  but  he  went 
on  in  his  own  pathway,  as  though  he  was  only  the 
humble,  but  true  minister  of  Deity,  proclaiming  just 
thoughts,  and  wholesome  precepts  to  man.  He  was 
fed  by  no  ravens,  nor  asked,  or  expected  a  car  of  fire. 
A  well  regulated  stage  may  be  likened  to  a  Camera 
LuciDA,  in  which  one  desirous  of  taking  minute  re- 
semblances of  man,  in  every  form  of  his  .character, 
may  be  indulged.  Shakspeare  saw  that  the  stage, 
which  should  "  hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror  up  to  na- 
ture,*' did  not,  in  ignorant  hands,  give  precise  images 
of  things,  and  he  set  about  reforming  this  altogether  j 


49 

and  no  man  was  better  formed  for  the  task.  A  thou- 
sand might  luive  been  found  to  have  ravaged  nations, 
and  swept  over  empires,  in  all  the  greatness  of  the 
conqueror,  to  one  wlio  could  have  reformed  the  stage  ; 
or  rather  human  nature  exhibited  by  the  stage. 

Shakspeare,  in  the  thirty-five  plays  proved  to  have 
been  from  his  pen,  has  exhibited  the  mind  of  man  in- 
all  its  ph;u>es.  His  propen.sities,  his  habits,  his  prac- 
tices, liis  reasoning,  false  and  philosopliical,  were  all 
exhibited  by  him,  in  truth  and  power.  His  virtues,  his 
weaknesses,  his  eccentricities,  even  his  idiosyncrasies, 
were  all  known  to  this  great  anatomist  of  the  human 
mind;  his  hopes,  his  passions,  his  frivolities,  were  all 
laid  bare  to  liim.  Tlhese  plays,  whicli  seemed,  per- 
haps, in  the  age  in  which  lie  hved,  oply  written  to 
amuse  the  populace  of  a  city,  contained  the  analysis 
of  the  human  mind,  and  the  history  of  the  passions. 
For  instance,  if  ho  would  give  ambition,  look  at  his 
Richard  HI,  when  the  passiim  is  up,  the  means  pa- 
tiently pursued,  and  every  principle  sacrificed  to  the 
end.  Hypocrisy,  cunning,  flattery,  and  diabolical 
energy^,  all  are  used  for  his  purposes.  In  all  this,  all 
is  natural  in  its  way — the  monarch  croaks  morality, 
and  utters  "wise  saws,"  while  he  plots  destruction, 
and  strikes  the  dagger ;  hut  he  does  not  hide  his  de- 
formity, even  from  the  mother  who  bare  him.  She 
sees  all  his  moral  baseness ;  and  speaks  it  in  words 
wrung  from  her  breaking  heart. 

"  Techy  and  waywnri]  was  thy  infancy  ; 
'I'hy  Bchooldays  frightful,  desperate,  wild,  and  furio:'9 ; 
Thy  prime  of  manhood,  daring,  bold,  and  venturous; 
Thy  age  confirra'd,  proud,  subtle,  sly,  and  bloody," 
5* 


50 

His  lady  Macbeth  is  even  a  finer  delineation  of  cha- 
racter, as  it  regards  reckless  ambition.  She  was  bold 
in  her  means,  as  well  as  anxious  for  results.  She  had 
firmness  of  purpose,  as  well  as  insatiable  passion  for 
power.  She  put  heaven  and  hell  at  defiance,  and  drove 
onward  to  expected  enjoyment  and  distinction.  She 
spoke  in  all  the  boldness  of  her  nature : — 

"  The  raven  himself  is  hoarse. 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duiican 
Under  my  battlements.     Come,  come  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here ; 
And  fill  me  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood. 
Stop  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse  ! 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  pace  between 
The  effect  and  it." 

Notwithstanding  she  braced  herself  with  all  this 
fiend-like  energy,  yet,  he  made  her  true  to  nature  ;  for 
tliough  she  had  plucked  from  her  soul  all  remorse, 
while  she  could  concentrate  her  powers,  no  sooner 
than  she  slept,  her  dreams  and  somnambulism  spoke 
all  the  horrors  of  her  soul.  Shakspeare  developed 
this  truth  in  Richard  and  Clarence — neither  of  whom 
shrunk  from  perjury  or  murder  while  awake  and  mas- 
ters of  themselves,  but  when  the  soul  was  naked  and 
in  the  lonely  watches  of  the  night,  were  very  babies  in 
fortitude.  A  quiet  conscience  rarely  sees  a  frightful 
object  in  the  repose  of  nature ;  it  has  none  of  the 
night-mare  agonies  of  villany.  Angels  smooth  the 
pillows  of  the  virtuous,  and  bring  visions  of  delight  to 
the  benevolent  and  the  good.  If  we  sleep  each  passing 


51 

nisrht  so  much  better  for  doing  well,  who  would  not 
wi^h  to  lie  down  in  the  long  sleep  of  the  grave,  with 
all  quiet  about  his  heart  ? 

Macbeth  was  of  a  more  delicate  fibre  ;  he  felt  and 
shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  blood  ;  he  had  some  touches 
of  nature  in  him  ;  he  saw  daggers,  and  heard  warning 
voices,  and  said  aloud, 

"  I'll  go  no  more  ; 
I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ; 
Look  on't  again  I  dare  not." 

She,  braced  by  ambition  to  the  use  of  reckless  means 
to  bring  about  ends,  tauntingly  replies, 

"  Infirm  of  purpose ! 
Give  me  the  daggers ;  the  sleeping,  and  the  dead. 
Are  but  as  pictures  ;  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil." 

Shakspoaro  never  suffers  the  shades  of  character  to 
nm  uiuialurally  into  each  other ;  for  the  usurper  of 
the  crown  of  Denmark  did  as  foul  a  deed  for  power  as 
Lady  Macbeth  and  her  husband  ;  but  though  as  trea- 
flif-rous  and  more  vile,  for  it  was  a  brothers  blood  he 
shed,  yei  he  had  no  energy  of  character.  He  exhi- 
hitifi  remorse  of  conscience,  and  yet  coidd  not  refrain 
from  adding  to  his  crime  in  seeking  safety  in  the  death 
of  others. 

•Sliakspearc  ha.s  been  as  successful  in  describing  love, 
as  aiiibilion.  He  has  sliown  it  in  all  its  varieties,  from 
the  hickly  flame  that  glinimers  in  the  breasts  of  those 
uhoni  micrestw  unite,  to  the  aimplicity,  warmth,  and 


52 

ti-uth  of  the  cottager  ;  from  the  impassioned  Queen  of 
Egypt  to  the  melting  Juliet,  and  the  sweet  violet  Mi- 
randa. He  knew  all  the  springs  of  the  human  heart, 
and  could  describe  their  ebb  and  flow. 

How  admirably  has  he  depicted  "  Avarice  with  his 
blade  and  beam,"  iu  Shylock ;  and  yet  how  weak  is 
that' avarice  when  it  walks  hand  in  hand  with  revenge. 

Pride  is  as  well  delineated  in  Coriolanus.  Not  only 
has  he  made  this  character  true  to  history,  but  he  has 
given  the  mighty  patrician  new  thoughts  of  aristo- 
cratic consequence. 

"  His  nature  is  too  noble  for  the  world  : 
He  would  not  flatter  Neptune  for  his  trident, 
Or  Jove  for  his  power  to  thunder.     His  heart's 

his  mouth : 
What  his  breast  forges  that  his  tongue  must  vent ; 
And,  being  angry,  does  forget  that  ever 
He  heard  the  name  of  death." 

The  inferior  and  superhuman  beings  the  great  poet 
creates,  are  admirable  productions.  His  Caliban  is  a 
monster  of  malignity  and  ignorance ;  a  being  to  whose 
nature  nurhtre  would  not  stick.  He  has  many  resem- 
blances in  crowded  cities,  in  manners  and  in  mind ; 
but  these  are  not  dressed  with  the  skins  of  wild  beasts 
nor  confined  to  a  desolate  island,  but  they  cannot  name 
the  greater  or  lesser  lights  better  than  he.  •  It  would 
take  more  than  Prosperi's  wand  to  exile  them  all  to 
the  wilds  of  nature. 

The  delicate  Ariel  "was  a  lovely  creature  of  the  ima- 
gination ;  probably,  a  personification  of  the  imagina- 
tion itself,  which  is  first  a  slave  to  ignorance,  obliged 


53 

to  bear  the  earthli/ and  abhorred  commands  of  capri- 
cious malignity  ;  but  when  enlarged  from  confinement 
by  the  wand  of  science,  is  ready  to  answer  the  best 
l>l€asure  of  its  master, 

"  Be  it  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds." 

I 

There  are  Calibans  in  the  field  of  literature,  who 
would  curse  all  science  and  taste,  and  violate  the  off- 
spring of  refinement  and  genius,  if  they  had  power; 
but  we  trust  in  heaven  that  the  Tempest  is  up  in  the 
intellectual  world — that  Ou;  spell  is  in  operation  which 
will  be  kept  alive  by  stiuJy,  and  science,  and  letters,  un- 
til the  wishes  of  the  good  are  accomplished,  and  the 
conspiracies  of  the  base  defeated. 

We  might  go  on  until  the  seasons  changed  witli  these 
d)-3cu3sions,  for  I  question  whether  you  can  name  a 
passion  or  a  trait  of  character  in  the  whole  history  of 
man,  developed  by  the  metaphysician,  or  illustrated  by 
poetry,  of  which  Shakspeare  does  not  furnish  some  ex- 
cellent specimen.  His  coarse  wit,  now  so  offensive  to 
some,  was  in  his  day  pungent  satire.  Tliis  we  may  infer 
distinctly  from  what  we  now  understand  of  it ;  for  in- 
stance, the  satire  from  the  mouth  of  the  grave-digger  in 
Hamlet,  upon  the  bar  and  bench,  and  the  laws,  as  ad- 
ministered in  that  day,  is  admirable.  The  character  of 
Holofcrnes,  in  Ijme''8 Lubour\';TjOst^  is  full  of  sarcasm 
upon  the  literati  of  his  time,  for  attempting  to  de- 
stroy the  Knglish  language  by  I^atinizing  it.  Many 
of  the  saws  he  suffers  to  drop  from  tlic  moutli,  of  his 
fools,  are  so  formed  under  the  motley  gui.se  he  gives 


54 

them,  as  to  cut  deep  upon  the  frivoUties  and  vices  of 
the  age. 

If  Shakspeare  was  the  poet  of  nature,  as  he  is  always 
called,  why  should  we  not  judge  him  as  we  do  nature? 
When  we  look  abroad  on  nature,  to  contemplate  the  vast 
oceans,  the  extended  continents,  the  beautiful  lakes,  the 
lovely  rivers,  the  flowers  and  fruits  of  every  clime,  and 
the  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills,  or  throwing  our  eyes  to 
Jhe  starry  heavens,  the  stupendous  work  of  circling 
planets  and  rising  and  setting  constellations — does  not 
this  fill  us  with  delight  and  wonder  ?  Who  would  not 
pity  the  dissatisfied  inhabi1;ant  of  this  earth,  if  instead 
of  lookuig  thus  upon  the  works  of  Providence,  he 
should  dwell  upon  the  sterile  proviontoTy,  the  sandy 
desert,  the  bqqs  and  fens  full  of  miasma,  and  point  out 
the  slimy  snake  and  open-mouthed  crocodile,  as  athe- 
istical proof  that  the  world  was  made  amiss  ?  If  we 
were  wise  enough  to  understand  them,  all  these  appa- 
rent evils  were  made  for  benefits.  We  should  at  least 
carry  such  a  disposition  with  us  when  we  go  out  to  ex- 
amineany  thing  that  does  good  to  society.  In  fine,  v/e 
will  leave  to  professed  critics  to  quarrel  with  Shaks- 
peare for  his  contempt  of  unities;  to  gravity  of  face 
to  look  awry  at  his  quibbles  and  his  puns,  and  to  simu- 
lated modesty  to  utter  a  scream  of  abhorrence  at  his 
freedom  of  thought  and  expression,  while  we  will  read 
his  works,  grow  enamoured  with  his  intellectual  glo- 
ries, and  imprint  upon  our  memories  the  immortal 
delineations  of  his  pen.  What  Milton  praised,  Warbur- 
ton  admired,  and  Johnson  spent  his  days  and  niglits  in 
commenting  upon,  and  millions  of  the  wise  devour 
each  succeeding  day,  will  last  while  our  language  is 
spoken,  or  time  exists. 


bo 

Francis  Bacon  •was  contemporary  witli  Shakspcare. 
lie  was  born  in  15G1,  and  was  attorney  {;cnural  wlien 
tiie  great  polI  died-,  b\it  i)robal)ly  from  their  diilerent 
walks  in  life,  they  could  not  have  shed  mucli  hght  upon 
each  other.  Bacon  did  more  for  learning  than  any  'of 
his  predecessors  had  done  fur  ages.  He  may  be  said  to 
have  changed  the  order  of  reasoning  among  his  coun- 
trymen, and  after  a  while  over  much  of  Europe.  He 
broke  up  the  ponJerous  machinery  of  getting  at  truth, 
then  known  in  the  schools,  and  which  was  full  of  subtle 
errors,  and  tauclit  men  by  induction  to  fix  principles, 
from  first  ascertaining  facts.  He  wrote  upon  history, 
upon  Ute  advancement  of  learniiTg,  upon  law,  and  in^ 
fact  upon  almost  all  matters  relating  to  the  cultivation 
of  (he  mind.  He  cleared  away  tlie  rubbish  of  monas- 
tic lore,  and  gave  a  new  analysis  to  the  powers  of  ^lie 
hiunan  mind,  separating  the  understanding  from  me- 
mory, and  the  imagination  from  both,  He  made  a 
plain  ciiart  of  human  knowledge,— that  which  was 
AvjoiTH,  and  that  which  was  to  be  acquired,— -dWtS  show- 
ed the  capacities  of  men  to  obtain  it,  and  gave  direc- 
tions f(ir  its  use  when  obtained.  He  pointed  out  its 
effects  upon  the  individual  and  the  great  mass  of  so- 
'ciety.  *  He  fathomed  the  wisdom  of  the  anciejits,  gave 
new  meanings  to  their  mytliology,  and"  turned  ap- 
parent deformities  to  beauties,  a,«id  seeming  extrava- 
ganccH  to  delicate  illr.'^lrations.  In  a  word,  Bacon  was 
tlir;  greatest  reformer  the  world  ever  knew.  Part  of  \ns 
works  had  an  extensive  circulation,  being  either  writ- 
ten in  Ivitin  or  translated  into  that  language.  'J'he 
Kufilish  language,  in  his  day,  was  more  confined  liian 
most  (ithcrs,  not  beinir  tlie  vernacular  of  uiore  than  five 
millions  of  people  to  the  utmost.    Now  it  is  the  Ian- 


56 

guage  of  more  than  fifty  millions,  and  in  the  course  of 
three  centuries  it  will  be  the  language  of  more  than  one- 
third  of  the  human  race.  What  new  glories  await 
Shakspeare  and  Bacon ! 

This  great  philosopher  and  benefactor  of  mankind  suf- 
fered from  the  meanness  and  vacillation  of  a  weak  and  pe- 
dantic king,  and  from  the  slanders  of  an  after  age  in  the 
flippancy  of  a  poetical  illustration  ;  but  modern  inquiry 
and  a  better  sense  of  justice  have  reversed  the  sentence 
he  has  suffered  under,  and  pronounce  him  not  only  to 
have  been  honest,  but  a  great  blessing  to  the  world.  He 
was  early  wise  for  usefulness,  and  his  intellect  grew 
brighter  and  brighter  until  the  lamp  of  life  was  extin- 
guished. He  bequeathed  his  memory  to  posterity,  and 
with  all  future  ages  he  is  sure  to  have  justice  done 
him, 

Robert  Burton,  a  distinguished  writer  of  that  age,  was 
born  1576,  and  died  1630.  His  great  work  was  called 
by  him  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy."  It  is  a  composi- 
tion of  great  originality ;  wild,  eccentric,  and  yet  philo- 
sophical and  full  of  genius.  The  Anatomy  of  Melan- 
choly has  been  reprinted  in  this  country,  and  is  now- 
much  read,  and  it  amply  repays  the  modern  reader  for 
his  pains.  It  is  refreshing,  once  in  a  while,  to  get  hold 
of  an  original  thinker.  It  seems  to  sow  the  mind  with 
seeds  of  thought,  which  spring  up  Avhen  we  are  not  con- 
scious of  it,  and  assists  us  to  fill  up  the  measure  of 
every  crop  we  produce.  It  is  the  custom  of  every 
good  husbandman  to  sow  clover  on  fallow  lands  to  be 
ploughed  in,  to  increase  the  fertility  of  the  soil ;  it ' 
should  be  so  with  men  in  preparing  the  mind  for  its 
best  efforts.  Things  entirely  foreign  to  what  is  intended 
to  be  cultivated,  should  often  fertilize  us— for  after  all 


57 

©ui  boast  of  genius,  there  cannot  be  much  expected,  un- 
less we  plough  deep,  cross-cut,  and  lieap  and  mellow 
the  sward  to  catch  the  nitrous  particles  which  evolve 
the  fertilizing  gases,  and  even  then  we  must  pray  for 
prosperous  seasons  to  gain  a  rich  harvest,  and  even 
these  may  come  without  good  markets. 

1  must  necessarily  leave  a  number  of  the  much  distin- 
guished dramatic  poets — Jonson,  Marlow,  and  others — 
and  hasten  to  say  a  word  of  Milton.  The  puritans  had  not 
had  many  poets  before  Milton  arose,  and  it  was  said  that 
their  austerity  was  unfriendly  to  the  loftier  efforts  of  the 
muse.  It  was  thought  that  they  would  not  use  the 
tasteful  fictions  of  the  classic  ages  ;  that  they  would  not 
cull  an  evergreen  from  Mount  Ida,  or  drink  of  the  wa- 
ters welling  from  Helicon  ;  but  it  happened  in  this  that 
the  world  were  mistaken.  The  bard  of  immortality 
had  tried  his  hand  at  minor  poems,  and  had  surpassed 
all  his  predecessors  in  the  English  language.  The 
smaller  works  of  Shakspeare  bear  no  comparison,  in 
point  of  dignity,  ease,  and  elegance,  to  Milton's.  He 
was  master  of  antiquity,  and  showed  at  every  flourish 
of  his  pen  how  much  he  venerated  the  bards  of  other 
times.  He  coursed  over  nature,  and  selected  her 
choicest  beauties,  as  one  inspired  by  Flora  herself.  With 
a  playful  hand,  under  the  guidance  of  a  chastened  taste, 
he  rifled  Attica,  the  groves  of  Nunia,  and  even  the  gar- 
dens of  Armida,  to  make  up  his  basket  of  flowers.  He 
threw  his  treasures  on  the  winds,  with  a  careless  hand, 
or  distilled  their  essences  to  perfume  the  breezes.  He 
wa.<«  free  from  cant  and  bigotry ;  and  you  may  search  in 
vain  for  any  narrowness  of  creeds  or  mystical  fanati- 
cism about  Milton.  Never  lived  there  a  man  wiio  used 
6 


58 

more  direct  means  to  come  to  honest  ends,  as  he  thought 
them,  than  John  Milton. 

Letters  were  his  profession.  His  father  was  a  man 
of  information,  and  early  seeing  his  genius,  educated 
him  for  a  scholar.  For  this  purpose  he  travelled  into 
Italy  when  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  was  received 
as  one  who  had  surpassed  all  his  countrymen,  in  his  ta- 
lents and  acquirements,  and  they  were  then  the  best 
judges,  being  themselves  in  advance  of  all  Europe  in  the 
arts,  sciences,  and  literature. 

Milton  on  his  return  to  his  country  was  involved  in 
controversy,  both  political  and  religious;  but  in  the 
midst  of  his  labors,  however  uncongenial  to  the  muse, 
he  constantly  felt  the  workings  of  an  exalted  genius, 
and  now  and  then  intimates,  yea,  almost  promises, 
something  for  the  use  and  honor  of  his  country. 
*'  This,"  says  Milton,  "  is  not  to  be  obtained  but  by  de- 
vout prayer  to  the  Eternal  Spirit  that  can  enrich  with 
all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends  out  his  sera- 
phim with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altar,  to  touch  and 
purify  the  lips  of  whom  he  pleases.  To  ffis  must  be 
added  industrious  and  select  reading,  steady  observa- 
tion, and  insight  into  all  seemly  and  generous  acts 
and  affiurs,  till  which  in  some  measure  be  compact,  I 
refuse  not  to  sustain  this  expectation." 

This  noble  intention  was  for  a  while  retarded  by  his 
dipping  deeply  into  politics.  Party  spirit,  not  only 
retards,  but  often  destroys  the  love  of  letters,  and  the 
determination  of  their  votaries,  and  not  unfrequently 
cuts  np,  root  and  branch,  every  fondness  for  them,  and 
leaves  the  mind  in  apathy  for  philosophy  of  any  kind, 
while  it  whettens  th^;  appetite  for  the  thorny  honors  of 
poUtical  life. 


59 

^niton  was  made  Latin  secretary  to  tlie  council  of 
state,  which  was  to-supply  the  office  of  Koyahj . 

In  1652,  Milton  had  lost  his  eyesight,  yet  he  still 
clung  to  polemic  and  political  life,  and  was  a  gladiator 
on  the  arena  until  after  his  friend  Oliver  Cromwell's 
death,  and  the  restoration  of  Charle*  II,  when  he  gave 
it  up.  When  tlie  storm  had  blown  over,  Milton  retired 
to  contemplate  his  immortal  work—"  Paradise  Lost.'* 
Johnson  says  that  "  he  fixed  upon  tliis  subject,  a  desigii 
so  comprehensive,  that  it  could  only  be  justified  by  its 
success."  More  than  this  can  be  said  ;  it  wiu^  a  design 
so  vast,  and  one  which  entered  so  far  into  eternity,  and 
the  destinies  of  man,  connected  with  a  machinery  so 
iveighty  and  awful,  that  no  one  who  was  not  armed 
with  the  paiK  ply  of  that  deep  religious  feeling  that  is 
ready  to  venture  on  martyrdom,  and  felt  the  posses- 
sion of  a  genms  that  gained  strength  by  every  obsta- 
cle, would  have  ventured  upon.  To  any  other  man 
It  would  have  been  not  only  a  failure,  but  his  destruc- 
tion- If  he  had  not  been  prepared  by  faith  to  pass 
the  burning  ploughshare,  the  attempt  would  liave  been 
considered  as  allied  to  blasphemy.  But  Milton  scaled 
the  battlements  of  Heaven  by  privilege,  a  d  was  al- 
lowed to  take  with  him  all  his  human  knowledge.  In 
this  poem  is  to  be  found  all  the  learning  of  the  ancients, 
strained  and  purified  for  the  occasion.  Tlie  seraphim 
he  mentions  seems  to  have  touched  the  hcalhen  Apollo, 
and  to  have  changed  his  lyre  to  a  burning  harp  of  eter- 
nal praise ;  and  th«^  god  of  taste  and  wisdom  to  a  mi- 
niatcring  angel  of  revelation. 


60 

FROM  THE  MASK  OF  COMUS. 
I  The  Lady  enters. 

This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true, 

My  best  guide  now ;  methought  it  was  the  sound 

Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment. 

Such  as  the  jocund  flute,  or  gamesome  pipe. 

Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unletter'd  hinds, 

When  for  their  teeming  flocks,  and  granges  full, 

In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan, 

And  thank  the  Gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loth 

To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swill'd  insolence 

Of  such  late  wassailers ;  yet  oh,  where  else 

Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet 

In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  ? 

My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 

With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 

Under  the  spreading  favour  of  these  pines, 

Stept,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side 

To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 

As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 

They  left  me  then,  when  the  grey  hooded  even, 

Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed. 

Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain. 

But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back, 

Is  now  the  labor  of  my  thought ;  'tis  likeliest 

They  had  engag'd  their  wand'ring  steps  too  far, 

And  envious  darkness,  ere  they  could  return. 

Had  stole  them  from  me  ;  else,  O  thievish  night, 

Why  wouldst  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end. 

In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars, 


61 

That  nature  hung  in  lieav'n,  and  fiU'd  tlieir  lamps 

A\  itii  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 

To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller  ? 

'Jlus  is  the  plaee,  as  well  as  i  may  gnoss, 

>\  hence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 

^^■as  rife  aiid  perfect  in  my  list'ning  ear ; 

\et  nought  but  single  darkness  do  I  find. 

>\  hat  might  this  be  ?  A  thousand  fantasies 

Begin  to  liirong  into  my  memory,- 

Of  calling  shapes,  and  beck'ning  shadows  dire, 

And  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  men's  names 

On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses. 

These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound 

The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 

By  a  strong  siding  champion,  Conscience. 

0  welcome  pure-ey'd  faith,  white-handed  hope, 
Thou  hovering  angel,  girt  with  golden  wings, 
And  thou,  unblemished  form  of  chastity! 

1  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  he,  the  Supreme  Good,  t'  whom  all  things  ill 
Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 
Would  send  a  glist'ring  guardian,  if  need  were. 
To  k.eep  my  life  and  honor  unassail'd. 
Was  I  deceived,  or  did  a  sable  cloud 
Turn  fort-h  her  silver  lining  on  tlie  night? 
I  did  not  err ;  there  does  a  sable  cloud 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night, 
And  casts  a  gleam  over  this  tufted  grove. 
I  cannot  halloo  to  my  brothers,  iuit 
Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  farthest 
I'll  venture  ;  ff)r  my  new  enliven'd  si)iri(s 
Prompt  me  ;  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  ofl". 
6* 


62  ^ 

SONG. 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen 
Within  thy  airy  shell. 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet  ernbroider'd  vale, 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  monrneth  well  j 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are  ? 

O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flow'ry  cave, 
Tell  me  but  where, 
Sweet  queen  of  Parley,  daughter  of  the  sphere! 
So  may'st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies. 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heav'n's  harmonies. 

Comus.  Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Breathe  such  divine  enchanting  ravishment  ? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence  : 
How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty  vaulted  night, 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkness  till  it  smil'd  !  I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe,  with  the  Sirens  three. 
Amidst  the  flow'ry-kirtled  Naiades 
Culling  their  potent  herbs,  and  baleful  drugs, 
Who,  as  they  sung,  Avould  take  the  prison'd  soul, 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium  ;  Scylla  wept, 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention. 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmur'd  soft  applause : 


63 

Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lull'd  the  sense, 

And  in  sweet  madness  robb'd  it  of  itself ; 

But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 

Such  sober  certainty  of  wak.ii>g  bhss, 

I  never  hoard  till  now.     I'll  speak,  to  lier, 

And  she  shall  be  my  queen.     Hail,  foreign  wonder ! 

"WTiom  certain  these  rough  shades  did  never  breed, 

Unless  the  Goddess  that  in  rural  shrine 

Dwell'st  here  with  Pan,  or  Sylvan,  by  blest  song 

Forbidding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 

To  touch  the  prosp'rous  growth  of  this  tall  wood. 

Ltuly.  Nay,  gentle  shepherd,  ill  is  lost  that  praise 
Tliat  is  address'd  to  unattending  ears  ; 
Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift 
How  to  regain  my  sever'd  company, 
Compeird  me  to  awake  the  courteous  echo 
To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch.         [thus  ? 

Comiis.  What  chance,  good  lady,  hath  bereft  you 

Lady.  Dim  darkness  and  this  leafy  labyrinth. 

Comits.  Could  that  divide  you  from  near-ushering 
guides  ? 

Lody.  Tiiey  left  me  weary  on  a  grassy  turf. 

Comiis.  By  falsehood,  or  discourtesy,  or  why  ? 

J^ady.  To  seek  i'  th'  valley  some  cool  friendly  spring. 

Comu^.  And  left  your  fair  side  all  unguarded,  lady? 

La/ly.  Tliey  were  but  twain,  and  purpos'd  quick  re- 
turn. 

Comus.  Perhaps  forestalling  night  prevented  them. 

Ixifly.  How  ea.sy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit ! 

Comus.  Imports  their  loss,  besides  the  present  need? 

Lofhj.  No  less  than  if  I  nhould  my  brothers  lose. 

ComuK.  Were  they  of  manly  prime,  or  youthful 
bloom  ? 


64 

Lady.  As,smooth  as  Hebe's  their  unrazor'd  lips. 

Comus.  Two  such  I  saw,  what  time  the  labor'd  o. 
In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came,  - 
And  theswink'dhedger  at  his  supper  sat ; 
I  saw  them  under  a  green  mantling  vine 
That  crawls  along  tJie  side  of  yon  small  hill, 
Plucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  tender  shoots  ; 
Their  port  was  more  than  human,  as  they  stood ; 
I  took  it  for  a  faery  vision 
Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element. 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  i'  th'  plighted  clouds.    I  was  awe-struck, 
And  as  I  pass'd  I  worship'd ;  if  those  you  seek, 
It  were  a  journey  like  the  path  to  Heav'n, 
To  help  you  find  them. 

Lady.  Gentle  villager, 
What  readiest  way  would  bring  me  to  the  place  ? 

Comus.  Due  v^^est  it  rises  from  this  shrubby  point. 

Lady.  To  find  out  that,  good  shepherd,  I  suppose, 
In  such  a  scant  allowance  of  star-light, 
Would  over-task  the  best  land-pilot's  art, 
Without  the  sure  guess  of  well  practis'd  feet. 

Comus.  I  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley  green, 
Dingle,  or  bushy  dell  of  this  wild  wood. 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side, 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighborhood  ; 
And  if  your  stray-attendants  be  yet  lodg'd, 
Or  shroud  w^ithin  these  limits,  I  shall  know 
Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted  lark 
From  her  thatched  pallet  rouse ;  if  otherwise 
I  can  conduct  you,  lady,  to  a  low 
But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe 
Till  further  quest. 


65 

Lcuhj.  Sheplierd,  I  take  thy  word, 
And  trust  tliy  honest  oiTer'd  courtesy, 
N\'hich  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  sheds 
^Vlth  smoky  rafters,  than  in  tap'stry  halls 
.\nd  courts  of  princes,  where  it  first  M'as  narn'd, 
And  yet  is  most  pretended  :  in  a  place 
Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 
I  cannot  be,  that  I  should  fear  to  change  it. 
Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my  trial 
To  ray  proportion'd  strength.     Shepherd,  lead  on. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  contemporaries  of  Milton  and  his  successors 
lived,  indeed,  in  evil  times  for  literature.     Sir  William 

Davenunt  received  from  Milton  countenance  and  pro- 
tection, wTien  Cruiiiwcll'j  purtj-  woo  i.»  powo- ,  oj^a 
was  most  nobly  repaid  by  Davenant  when  Charles  II. 
came  to  the  throne.  Davenant  was  the  admirer  of 
Shakspeare,  and  acquainted  with  the  bard  of  Avon, 
though  only  eleven  years  of  age  when  he  died.  Dave- 
nant was  one  of  those  men  who  to  live  was  obliged  to 
submit  to  public  feeling  and  taste;  and  to  cater  for  it 
against  the  best  dictates  of  liis  own  judgment.  Dave- 
nant was  a  man  of  versatile  talents,  and  served  his 
country,  or  rather  his  party,  in  divers  capacities,  as  dra- 
malist,  diplomatist,  and  military  cliicftain  :  for  his  mi- 
litary services  he  was  knighted.  Tliere  are  many  fine 
sentiments  in  his  works,  which  will  be  long  remem- 
bered-    The  taste  of  the  limes  made  him  degrade  his 


66 

genius,  and  give  up  to  the  hour  what  was  meant  for 

future  generations. 

To  these  succeeded  Cowley :  he  was  born  in  1618. 

It  was  Spenser's  works  that  made  him  a  poet,  or  rather 

which  developed  his  talents  for  poetry.     Cowley  was 

precocious  as  a  poet,  having  made  some  respectable 

verses  at  the  age  of  fifteen.     He  was  noticed  by  the 

leading  politicians  of  that  day  ;  and  was  employed  as 

secretary  of  Lord  St.  Albans,  who  was  his  kind  patron 

for  many  years  of  his  life.    Cowley  was  learned  and 

tasteful.     His  measure  is  accurate,  and  his  rhyme  easy 

and  sweet.     He  was  the  most  mellifluous  of  all  the 

tuneful  throng.     He  had  something  of  the  restlessness 

of  the  poet  about  hira,  and  sighed  for  retirement  and 

the  charms  of  literary  ease.     This  is  a  common  feeling ; 

the  sensitive  mind,  wounded  by  real  or  imaginary  ne- 
glects and  msuits,  longs  lor  seclusion,  and  seems  to  dread 

the  company  of  his  fellow-beings  ;  but  deprive  him  of 
ouuicij?  A/i  a  rtw  weeks,  and  ne  would  make  any  sacri- 
fices to  get  back  to  the  world,  bad  as  it  is.  Cowley 
wished  to  find  quiet  in  the  wilds  of  America ;— he 
might  have  found  the  greatest  wilderness  in  a  throng- 
ed city.  In  the  thick  forest  man  assimilates  to  every 
thing  around  him  ;  in  a  city  only  to  what  he  pleases. 
The  longings  of  a  poet  are  as  capricious  as  the  winds 
of  April :  his  words  are  not  be  taken  precisely  as  set 
down. 

Dryden  is  a  name  far  more  familiar  to  us  than  any 
other  of  that  age.  He  was  born  in  1631.  He  lived  in  a 
political  and  turbulent  age,  and  naturally  irritable,  he 
partook  of  all  the  frailties  of  party  spirit.  He  was  a 
well  educated  man,  having  received  his  elementary  in- 
formation under  that  excellent,  stern  old  pedagogue, 


67 

% 

Ma"!ter  Busby,  who  believed  most  religiously  in  the  vir- 
tues of  a  rod  for  lazy  boys,  and  who  brought  up  some 
of  the  finest  scholars  of  his  day. 

Dryden  was  laureate  and  historiographer  to  Charles 
II,  and  pushed  on  his  course  with  a  variety  of  fortunes, 
with  tolerable  success,  until  the  revolution  of  1688, 
when  his  politics  were  out  of  fashion. 

The  satire  of  Dryden  is  often  biting  and  powerful. 
He  was  most  able,  in  general,  when  galled  and  injured. 
His  muse  was  a  party  engine,  and  he  seldom  thought 
of  quiet  or  literary  fame,  any  farther  than  it  could  an- 
noy his  enemies.  Still  Dryden  had  a  vigorous  mind, 
and  shot  his  arrows  with  a  manly  bow. 

There  are  passages  in  the  works  of  Dryden  that  will 
be  quoted  for  ages,  but  as  a  whole  it  must  be  confess- 
ed that  he  is  not  now  so  much  read,  as  he  was  by  those 
who  preceded  us,  and  for  good  reasons.  He  wrought  up 
events,  political  events,  and  party  circumstances,  into  sar- 
castic wit  and  cutting  irony,  that  sunk  deeply  then ;  but 
which  circumstances  and  events  are  out  of  date  now. 
So  it  must  always  liappen  to  those  who  build  their  A^me 
on  local  or  transitory  matter.*:.  It  is  the  poet  of  nature 
alone  who  can  survive  the  change  of  manners  and  the 
oblivion  of  pa.ssing  occurrences.  Juvenal  is  read,  it  is 
true,  even  now,  and  will  long  be  a  stock  author,  be- 
cause his  denunciations  were  against  vices  and  the 
wicked,  in  general  views,  rather  than  against  indi- 
viduals who  were  soon  forgotten.  Avarice  is  a  vice 
that  is  in  nature,  and  will  never  be  eradicated  ;  but  an 
avaricious  man  is  soon  forgotten.  His  heirs  have  no 
wish  tnhave  him  in  remembrance,  and  those  whom  he 
wronged  ceane  to  curse  him  when  he  is  in  his  grave. 
Johnson  has  run  a  parallel  between  Dryden  and  Pope, 


68 

0 

in  which  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  has  given  the 
palm  of  genius  to  Dryden  ;  but  the  critics  of  a  later 
age  have  reversed  the  decision,  or  at  least  greatly  mo- 
dified it. 

The  finest  specimen  of  Dryden's  poetical  talents  is 
his  ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  day.  It  is  a  most  splendid 
composition.  It  is  full  of  the  inspiration  of  the  muse, 
and  shows  a  mastery  over  every  measure  of  verse. 

St.  Cecilia's  day  was  kept  the  22d  of  November, 
and  was  celebrated  from  1683  until  1744 ;  and  the  odes 
on  this  anniversary  called  forth  the  talents  of  the  first 
geniuses  of  all  that  period.  It  is  not  a  little  remarka- 
ble, that  while  this  fair  saint  was  considered  as  the  in- 
ventress  of  sacred  music,  that  most  of  the  odes  written 
for  the  occasion  celebrated  rather  the  ancient  flute  or 
lyre,  than  the  instruments  devoted  to  sacred  music. 

This  lovely  saint  was  not  much  known  until  the 
year  1599,  when  Pope  Clement  VIII,  found  the  body  of 
St.  Cecilia  with  other  relics  in  Rome,  which  had  been 
slumbering  for  thirteen  hundred  years. 

St.  Cecilia  was  a  noble  Roman  lady,  who,  in  the 
early  age  of  Christianity,  suffered  martyrdom.  She 
was  said  to  have  excelled  in  divine  music,  and  to  have 
attracted  an  angel  from  heaven  by  the  charms  of  her 
voice.  The  heavenly  visitant  attended  her  through  her 
days  of  prosperity,  and  did  not  leave  her  when  she 
was  made  to  suffer.  Some  o^  the  Italian  painters,  after 
the  finding  of  her  body,  Ustened  to  all  the  legends  then 
afloat  in  Rome  about  her,  and  it  gave  them  another 
subject  for  their  pencils.  She  is  drawn  with  her  atten- 
dant angel  protecting  and  cheering  herwhen  in  boihng 
cauldrons  and  suffocating  baths ;  and  sometimes  he  is 
seen  plucking  burning  arrows  from  her  vestal  bosom, 


69 

that  had  been  shot  from  the  bows  of  the  savage  perse^ 
cutor. 

It  l3  somewhat  singular  to  observe  that  this  ode, 
which  ranks  among  the  best  ever  sung  on  this  or  any 
other  occasion,  should  celebrate  the  birth  of  dcmi-gods, 
the  virtues  of  Bacchus,  tlie  force  of  pity,  the  power  of 
love,  and  the  fury  of  revenge,  and  not  have  one  line 
on  the  rehgion  St.  CeciUa  Uved  to  practise,  and  died 
to  glorify,  and  only  a  hasty  intimation  of  her  sacred 
power. 

"  At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  j 

The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 

AVith  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unkno^vn before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 

She  drew  an  angel  down." 

Pope's  ode,  which  has  been  considered  far  inferior  to 
Dryd^'s,  is  more  religious^and  if  not  so  great  in  po- 
etical power,  is  much  superior  in  devotion,  and  more 
direct  to  the  subject ;  but  even  he  spends  most  of  his 
powers  on  Orpheus  and  his  lyre,  but  at  last  celebrates 
the  divine  vocalist  and  organist  in  true  poesy. 

"  Music  the  fiercest  grief  can  charm, 
And  Fate's  severest  rage  disarm  : 
Music  can  Sf,'"ten  pain  to  ease, 
And  make  despair  and  madness  pleaae: 


70 

Oat  ^^S  belffW  it  can  improve^ 
And  antedate  the  bliss  above. 
This  the  divine  Cecilia  found, 
And  to  her  Maker's  praise  confin'd  the  sound. 
When  the  full  organ  joins  the  tuneful  quire, 
Th'  immortal  powers  incline  their  ear ; 
*Borne  on  the  swelling  notes,  our  souls  aspire, 
While  solemn  airs  improve  the  sacred  fire, 
!     And  angels  lean  from  Heaven  to  hear. 
Of  Orpheus  now  no  more  let  poets  tell ; 
To  bright  Cecilia  greater  powers  are  given : 
His  numbers  rais'd  a  shade  from  Hell, 
Her's  lift  the  soul  to  Heav'n." 

Whoever  would  see  a  curious  account  of  these  odes 
must  look  at  Malone's  life  of  Dryden.  He  traced  them 
through  many  years. 

If  ever  man  had  an  evil  genius  to  attend  him,  that 
man  was  John  Dryden.  Little  and  Shadwell  disputed 
with  him  the  prize  of  poetical  merit,  and  no  small  part 
of  the  community  were  on  their  side.  It  is  one  of  the 
miseries  of  the  truly  great,  to  find  their  inferiors  put 
up  as  their  equals,  and  sometimes  as  their  superiors. 
It  is  but  little  satisfaction  to  some  minds  to  think  poste- 
rity will  do  them  justice.  No  man  will  appeal  to  pos- 
terity that  can  get  justice  done  in  his  own  time. 

Others,  besides  poets,  in  this  age,  addpfl  to  the  stock 
of  general  information,  and  no  one  rtiore  than  Sir 
Christopher  Wren.  He  was  born  in  1632,  and  was  so 
distinguished  in  early  life  as  to  be  made  professor  of 
astronomy  when  only  twenty-four  years  of  age.  He 
was  skilled  in  the  higher  branches  of  mathematics, 
and  applied  himself  to  astronomical  calculations  with 


71 

such  assiduity  that  before  he  had  reached  the  thirtieth 
year  of  his  age,  he  was  one  of  the  first  three  astrono- 
mers in  the  world.  He  unfolded  the  wonders  of  the 
planetary  motions,  and  gave  laws  to  distant  spheres. 
His  inventions  were  numerous.  He  no  sooner  saw 
the  wants  of  the  astronomer  in  getting  to  high  results, 
than  he  set  about  to  think  in  what  manner  he  could  re- 
medy them.  He  made  the  difficult  easy  ;  the  abstruse, 
plain  ;  and  amended  every  thing  he  touched.  He  not 
only  saw  the  God  in  tl>e  heavens,  and  adored  him  in 
the  vast  and  boundless  realms  of  space  as  he  journeyed 
onward  from  system  to  system  through  the  universe ; 
but  he  descended  from  the  Empyrean,  and  gave  the  mo- 
dels for  houses  of  religious  worship  to  his  fellow-men. 
Almost  all  the  fine  edifices  in  England,  now  dedicated  to 
the  worship  of  the  Christian  religion,  were  of  his  design- 
ing ;  and  most  of  our  houses  of  God  were  modeled  from 
some  plain  drafts  of  his.  If  such  a  man  is  not  so  often 
before  us  as  those  who  gave  us  sentiment  to  treasure 
im  anH  rpneat.  vet  his  ];<i>"'"  "-o  of  equal  vah"'  ^^  so- 
ciety. If  it  can  be  said  that  every  one  can  repeat  some 
of  the  lines  of  the  great  poets,  and  their  thoughts  are 
incorporated  with  all  we  think  and  do,  it  may  be  also 
said  tfiat  no  one  has  tlie  eonveniences  of  a  dwelling 
house,  or  the  privileges  of  a  seat  in  church  to  worship 
hifl  Maker,  without  being  indebted  to  such  men  as  Sir 
Christopher  Wren. 

Matthew  Prior,  is  a  name  familiar  to  all  the  reading 
community.  He  pa.ssed  through  a  variety  of  fortune — 
honored  as  a  scholar,  and  respected  for  IiIh  business  ta- 
lents. He  was  a  poet  of  easy  verse,  not  wanting  in  grace 
and  Bweetness ;  and  was  also  respectable  for  power. 
Hi*  prose  too  asBisted  in  directing  the  taste  of  the  times.- 


72 

He  was  born  in  1664,  and  must  have  known  Dry  den 
before  his  calamities  came  upon  him,  or  not  long  after. 
Prior,  when  a  minister  at  the  Hague,  and  in  all  his 
public  functions,  held  to  his  letters  and  fellowship,  and 
those  things  that  would  serve  him  when  public  honors 
might  pass  away. 

De  Foe  was  only  a  year  older  than  Prior,  He  was 
a  man  of  talents.  He  wrote  on  a  variety  of  subjects, 
«aid  on  many  of  them  with  great  success  ;  but  his  most 
popular  work  was  that  which  we  have  all  of  us  read 
an  hundred  times,  by  the  winter  fireside — his  Robin- 
ison  Crusoe.  It  is,  or  perhaps  rather  was,  the  child's 
own  book.  His  man  Friday  is  a  particular  friend  to  all 
of  us ;  and  we  can  see  the  goats  crop  the  tendrils  of 
the  vine  round  his  cabin,  and  bound  over  the  hills.  To 
such  works  are  we  more  indebted  than  we  are  aware 
of,  for  forming  our  taste  in  our  own  language.  The 
style  of  Robinson  Crusoe  is  familiar,  easy,  chaste,  and 
attractive.  The  words  are  well  chosen,  and  the  con- 
StruiytioTi  of  the  sGnto"'"^''  -^'-tfant,  without  anv  disnlav 
of  learning.  The  child  who  reads  this  work  is  learn- 
ing to  speak  and  write  his  mother  tongue,  without 
thinking  he  has  a  lesson  before  him,  and  the  mind  thus 
improved,  retains  all  that  it  gains.  De  Foe  was  a  man 
of  great  versatility  of  talents  ;  he  was  not  only  a  poli- 
tician and  poet,  but  a  negociator,  trader,  and  manufac- 
turer, but  great  as  a  political  economist.  He  was  in- 
strumental in  bringing  about  a  union  between  England 
and  Scotland  ;  and  it  is  said  his  services  were  well  re- 
warded. 

Although  some  of  those  we  have  named  lived  into 
the  reign  of  Anne,  and  were  protected  and  honored  by 
ier,  yet  they  are  generally  classed  with  thosewhoflour- 


73 

Hshed  before  her  time ;  as  Young,  Addison,  P6pe, 
Swift,  Parnc'U,  and  Arbutlinot,  and  otlicrs,  grew  more 
unnitdiately  in  her  time,  and  were  so  conspicuous, 
tiiat  their  names  seem  as  it  were  to  pusli  out  all  others. 
Among  the  number  of  elegant  and  classical  writers 
of  this  period,  Addison  was  pre-eminent.  He  was  born 
m  1072,  and  of  course  was  in  the  full  vigor  of  man- 
hood and  at  the  height  of  his  literary  fame, when  Anne 
was  in  her  glory.  He  wrote  poetry  with  great  ease 
and  taste,  but  his  proee  was  vastly  superior  to  his  poe- 
try. His  friend  Sir  Richard  Steele,  a  man  of  exten- 
sive acquirements  and  clas.sical  .taste,  a  great  director 
of  the  current  literature  of  the  day,  began  his  periodi- 
cal work  called  the  Tattler,  on  the  22d  of  April,  1709. 
This  work  was  carried  oil  for  some  time  with  great 
spirit,  and  Addison  was  a  writer  in  it.  When  this 
went  down,  Addison  and  Steele  got  up  the  Spectator, 
This  was  a  work  of  great  merit,  and  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  an  enlightened  community.  This  work  did 
more  to  fix  public  taste,  than  perhaps  any  other  ever 
published.  The  writers  were  of  the  first  order,  and 
they  handled  their  subjects  with  playfulness,  irony, 
and  that  smooth  and  elegant  courtesy  that  attracted 
the  attention  of  all  classes,  and  which  were  under- 
stood by  most  readers.  The  plan  was  not  original ; 
the  Italians  had  anticipated  the  English  in  this  spe- 
cies of  writing.  Casca's  book  of  manners,  was  said 
to  have  been  the  model  of  the  English  wits  and 
critics.  It  is,  however,  of  no  consequence  who  ori- 
pinatefl  this  mode  of  doing  good,  it  was  never  more 
hU(ce)<sful  than  in  the  hands  of  Addison,  and  his  coad- 
jutors. An  hundred  and  twenty  years  have  elapsed 
since  t^je  SjK^iator  first  appeared,  and  where  do  you 


'find  more  pure  English,  more  delicate,  fine  ^vriting,  a 
better  mirror  of  manners  at  the  present  day,  than  in 
the  Spectatdr  1  I  grant  you  that  there  is  more  energy, 
passion,  dictation,  assertion,  and  positiveness  in  some 
of  our  modern  standards,  than  in  the  works  of  Addison 
and  Steele,  but  I  would  rather  turn  to  this  work  for 
inodels  in  writing,  than  to  an  hundred  of  them.  Al- 
though the  doctrine  of  professed  reviewing  was  not 
then  thoroughly  known,  yet  give  me  the  direqt,  honest, 
enlightened  criticism  upon  Milton,  to  an  hundred  mo- 
dern reviews,  where  the  sage  commentator  is  only  ac- 
quainted with  perhaps  the  first  half  page  of  the  work 
he  praises  or  condemns.  Wliat  a  host  of  descendants 
have  these  works  of  Addison  and  Steele  produced ! 
Some  that  are  doing  good,  and  others  that  are  doing 
no  good  at  all. 

The  world  of  taste  and  imagination  was  not  alone 
improved,  the  exact  sciences  come  in  for  their  share  of 
genius.  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  was  born  in  1642,  and 
died  in  1727,  lived  among  the  illustrious  men  whose 
deeds  we  have  mentioned.  He  enlarged  the  bounds 
then  prescribed  to  science  ;  taught  new  principles,  ex- 
amined old  ones,  and  either  established  or  destroyed 
them  as  they  bore  the  test  he  submitted  them  to.  His 
pure  spirit  seemed  privileged  to  commune  with  the 
skies.  He  believed  in  a  Creator,  and  his  providence, 
and  was  rewarded  above  other  men  for  the  sincerity  of 
his  devotion,  in  the  plenitude  of  the  revelation  vouch- 
safed him.  Such  men  give  to  the  thinking  world  new 
matter  for  thought,  study,  and  experiment ;  they  are 
superior  spirits  on  errands  of  knowledge  for  the  ser- 
vice of  mankind. 


•'•  "VMio  can  ntimber  up  his  labors  ?  Who 
His  liigh  discoveries  sing  ?  when  but  a  few 
Of  the  deep-studying  race  can  stretch  their  minds 
To  what  he  knew :  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

■WTiat  wonder  thence  tliat  his  devotion  sAvell'd 
Responsive  to  his  knowledge  !  For  could  he, 
"Whose  piercing  mental  eye  dilTusive  saw 
Tlie  finish'd  university  of  things, 
In  all  its  order,  magnitude,  and  parts. 
Forbear  incessant  to  adore  that  Power 
WTio  fills,  sustains,  and  actuates  the  whole  ?" 

Pope  was  eighteen  years  younger  than  Addison.  He 
was  born  in  1688,  and  as  he  was  an  author  almost 
from  his  cradle,  he  must  have  been  early  acquainted 
with  tlie  works  of  his  illustrious  predecessor,  Addison. 
His  education  was  miscellaneous  and  extensive,  but  not 
minute,  nor  very  accurate.  He  "never  rose  by  benefice 
or  trade,"  but  was  solely  a  poet  from  the  beginning 
of  his  life  to  the  end.  Dryden  was  his  model.  The, 
youthful  poet  read  tlie  works  of  liis  prototype  with 
great  enthusiasm  ;  and  it  is  said  that  he  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  Dryden  at  the  coffee-house,  in  his 
old  age,  but  probably  from  the  disparity  of  their  years, 
no  intercourse  was  ever  had  between  them.  Pope  be- 
gan to  write  with  great  taste  very  early  in  life.  His 
Essay  on  Criticism,  written  when  only  twenty-one 
years  of  age,  is  a  most  wonderful  performance.  The 
Messiah  appeared  in  the  Spectator  in  1712,  when  he 
w;ls  only  twenty-four.  Previous  to  this  he  had  pub- 
lislu'd  tiiiit  inimitable  mock  heroic  poem,  "  T/ir  Ifape. 
of  the  Lock.'^    it  is  playful,  satirical,  and  elegant.    His 


76 

'Eloisa  has  more  feeling  in  it  than  all  he  ever  wrote 
before.  ^ 

In  1720,  he  published  the  Iliad.  Warton  has  been 
attacked  for  calling  this  the  "  highest  eifort  of  the  poet," 
but  I  am  at  a  loss  to  discover  on  what  grounds  he  has 
been  assailed  for  this  opinion  ;  for  perhaps  there  have 
been  some  who  wrote  original  compositions,  if  not  like, 
yet  with  as  much  mind  as  Pope,  but  no  one,  except  Sir 
William  Jones,  has  ever  made  such  admirable  transla- 
tions. Critics  say  that  it  is  not  literally  Homer ;  but 
there  is  scarcely  a  fine  passage  in  that  great  work  of 
elegance  and  beauty  that  has  not  given  you  the  sense 
of  Homer  in  most  beautiful  English.  This  will  be  read 
as  long  as  Homer  is  known. 

Shortly  after  these  numerous  publications,  he  grew 
proud  and  restive  under  the  criticisms  that  either  the 
ignorant  or  envious  had  made  upon  his  works.  He 
then  rose  in  his  wrath  to  form  a  Dunciad,  to  put  all 
these  knaves  and  fools  in  at  once.  This  was  a  fearful 
labor,  and  broke  at  once  a  hornet's  nest  about  his  ears. 
If  all  his  satire  had  been  just,  and  in  accordance  with 
public  feeling,  it  would  have  been  dangerous  enough  in 
all  conscience  ;  but  Pope,  taking  every  one  to  be  knave 
or  dunce  who  did  not  believe  in  his  Apollo-ship,  imfor- 
tunately  got  into  his  work  names  of  distinction,  such 
as  Bently  and  others ;  and  he  sometimes,  with  a  child- 
ish inconstancy,  changed  his  censures.  Theobald  was 
the  first  hero  of  the  Dunciad,  and  Gibber  was  the  last, 
the  former  having  been  dethroned  to  make  way  for  the 
latter.  There  was  no  sympathy  for  the  gnats  and  flies 
the  satirist  killed  or  woundedj  but  they  would  rail  on, 
and  what  was  worse,  lie  most  histily.  He  must  have 
strong  nerves  and  a  reckless  valor  who  makes  up  his 


77 

mind  to  say  what  he  pleases  of  every  knave  and  dunce 
he  finds  in  the  world ;  and  he  must  be  still  more  forti- 
fied, who  gives  these  epitliets  to  men  of  character  and 
spirit.  A  satirist  is  geuorally  a  man  who  has  suffered 
and  seeks  revenge,  or  one  rankling  from  defect,  real  or 
imaginary,  of  mind  or  person.  It  does  not  require 
half  the  talents  that  is  generally  supposed,  to  make  a 
good  satire.  Virtues  are  not  so  prominent  as  vice,  nor 
beauties  so  readily  seen  as  defects.  The  satirist  seizes 
on  these  vices  or  dcfect-s,  and  makes  tliem  ridiculous  or 
detestable,  as  he  wishes.  How  many  fine  looking  kings 
have  died,  for  the  beauty  of  whose  persons  we  have 
never  stopped  to  inquire,  while  all  the  deformities  of 
Hicliard  III.  are  noted  and  remembered.  But  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  defects  of  temper  in  Pope,  or 
liowever  unjust  he  may  have  been  in  particular  in- 
stances, in  assaiUng  great  and  good  men,  who  had  per- 
haps accidentally  offended  him,  still  his  works  will  hold 
their  plane  in  English  literature.  There  is  ease,  suc- 
rinrtnf"5s,  cwoofnp^s.  anrl  fplicitv  of  expression,  in  all 

1113    nuiKo.        Tl.t.    c.~.    ;.^  e<.4lon^a        yca,  HIUIT;,  giaiuicu — 

by  his  verse.  When  we  are  not  convinced  that  he  is 
exactly  right  in  sentiment,  we  cannot  but  admire  the 
power  and  beauty  he  evinces  in  putting  forth  his 
thoughts.  With  his  little  quarrels  we  have  nothing  to 
do  at  this  time,  and  there  is  nothing  to  make  us  wish  to 
keep  them  alive.  The  defects  of  those  departed  should 
be  remembered  no  further  than  they  can  do  some 
good  to  the  living,  or  to  those  who  are  to  come  after 
us.  Tlie  world  is  indebted  to  Pope  for  a  great  mass 
of  English  literature,  such  an  furnishes  the  mind  with 
subjects  of  thought,  and  at  thf  same  time  Iravfs  on  the 
tablets  of  the  mttmory,  jjp  the  Arabians  did  on  the  walls 


78 

■of  their  temples,  stanzas  of  truth  and  taste,  written  in 
bright  and  lasting  letters. 

Young  was  seven  years  senior  to  Pope,  but  he  did 
not  begin  to  publish  till  some  years  after  Pope's  wri- 
tings were  generally  known.  He  was  bred  to  the  civil 
law,  but  never  practised  his  profession,  and  finding 
himself  supported  in  his  love  of  letters  by  the  patrons 
of  that  day,  he  gave  up  that  profession,  and  when  near 
fifty  years  of  age  took  orders  in  the  church.  His  Last 
Day,  which  is  a  splendid  poem,  was  written  before  he 
changed  his  profession.  His  satires  followed.  They 
are  elegant  and  spirited  compositions.  In  his  Univer- 
sal Passion,  he  laughs  most  heartily  at  vice  and  folly ; 
but  after  several  ye3.rs,  when  domestic  calamities  sunk 
deeply  into  his  heart,  he  changed  his  mode  of  address- 
ing mankind.  It  often  happens  in  li-fe  that  we  find 
those  who  are  the  most  buoyant,  joyous,  and  laughter- 
loving  at  times,  at  other  moments  are  the  most  distress- 
ed and  wretched.  The  Night  Thoughts  were  published 
in  1742,  and  soon  bp^ame  popxUar.  Tkoy  aic.  con^onial 
to  the  mind  in  misAjriune,  and  they  breathe  such  a 
strain  of  piety  and  hope,  that  they  seem  to  ease  the 
heart  of  its  sorrows,  by  probing  it  most  thoroughly. 
This  work  abounds  in  passages  of  most  exquisite  po- 
etry ;  as  a  whole,  it  is  a  fine  argument  in  favor  of  a  fu- 
ture state  of  existence,  drawn  from  philosophy,  from 
nature,  and  revelation.  The  perusal  of  this  book  has 
inclined  more  people  to  serious  thoughts  than  any  other 
human  production  I  know  of.  The  mother,  bereaved  of 
her  husband  or  children,  turns  to  the  Night  Thoughts, 
as  well  as  her  Bible,  for  consolation ;  and  the  bereaved 
philosopher  is  sometimes  found  examining  its  pages. 
If  we  are  called  to  watch  over  the  corse  of  some  de- 


79 

parted  friend,  before  he  takes  up  his  abode  in  the  tomb, 
and  is  to  be  seen  no  more  on  earth,  do  we  not  put  th© 
Night  Thoughts  in  our  pocket  to  assist  us  to  chase 
away  the  shadows  of  darkness,  and  to  open  up  a  vis- 
ta to  other  worlds  ? 

Young  was  not  forever  weeping  over  departed  kin- 
dred, for  in  his  old  age  he  was  found  writing  one  of 
the  most  lively  works  in  the  English  language.  In  fact 
he  produced  two  of  this  character.  "  The  Centaur  not 
fabulous,"  and  "  Conjectures  on  Original  Composi- 
tions." The  latter  of  these  works  was  written  when 
the  author  was  turned  of  eighty  years  of  age.  If  his 
mind  at  noon-day  was  gloomy  and  dark,  his  setting  sun 
was  brilliant  and  lovely. 

There  were  a  cluster  of  wits,  poets,  and  fine  \VTiter3, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Tho- 
mas Parnelljthe  author  of  that  beautiful  vindication  of 
the  inscrutable  ways  of  providence,  the  Hermit.  He 
truly  was  a  sweet  poet.  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  the  friend  of 
Pope  and  physician  to  Queen  Anne,  was  a  man  of  taste 
and  learning.  He  wrote  upon  weights  and  measures, 
a  very  difficult  subject,  and  also  upon  coins,  a  very 
curious  one ;  besides  several  excellent  works  in  his 
professitin  were  from  his  pen. 

Gay  was  of  the  same  age  of  Pope ;  born  the  same 
year.  He  wrote  poetry  with  simplicity  and  elegance,  , 
and  showed  as  much  as  any  poet  of  his  time  a  good 
taste  for  the  beauties  of  his  mother  tongue.  His  fables 
are  in  the  hands  of  all  our  children,  and  are  full  of 
moral  mstruction  f(jr  all  ages. 

Of  Swift  it  is  difficult  to  speak.  His  genius  was  not 
inferior  to  any  of  the  iin-at  mm  of  hi.s  time.  His 
learning  was  extensive.    His  language  was  pure,  aim- 


80^ 

pie,  and  tasteful,  but  it  sometimes  covered  thoughts 
that  had  better  never  have  been  expressed. 

Bolingbroke  was  among  the  most  elegant  prose  wri- 
ters of  that  period.  He  wrote  with  a  lofty  spirit,  and 
would  be  more  known  than  he  is,  if  he  had  not  left  a 
tinge  of  infidehty  in  his  works. 

Sir  William  Temple,  who  died  in  1700,  left  several 
works  that  should  be  read  for  correctness  and  ele- 
gance. 

The  English  language  has  changed  but  little  since 
the  time  of  these  distinguished  men.  They  have  been 
standards  for  the  .last  century.  They  are  quoted  by 
all  the  compilers  of  dictionaries,  as  authority,  and  will 
hold  their  weight  and  respectability  forever.  The  ad- 
ditions that  have  been  made  to  the  English  language 
have  effected  no  change  with  them.  There  is  hardly  a 
word  used  at  thp  period  we  are  now  speaking  of,  by 
these  learned  men,  that  has  grown  obsolete. 

Dr.  Watts  is  a  name  dear  to  every  pious  mind  in  this 
country,  and  should  not  be  forgotten  in  our  hasty 
sketches  of  those  v/ho  have  added  to  or  purified  the 
currents  of  English  literature.  Watts  was  a  man  of 
genius  and  learning.  He  wrote  books  for  colleges  and 
for  mature  minds,  and  would  have  been  distinguished 
in  any  of  the  higher  branches  of  science,  had  he  con- 
fined himself  to  them;  and  the  specimens hehas  given 
us  of  his  powers  in  lyric  poetry,  prove  that  if  he  had 
devoted  much  attention  to  it,  he  would  certainly  have 
excelled  ;  but  a  sense  of  duty  led  him  to  write  for  the 
improvement  of  his  flock,  of  all  ages,  rather  than  for 
fame.  He  sung  the  lullaby  for  infancy,  and  poured 
wholesome  truths  into  the  humble  minds  of  those 
*^proud  science  never  taught  to  stray P    In  prose  and 


81 

verse,  he  labored  to  enlighten  the  ignorant  and  warm 
the  cold.  His  psalms  and  hymns,  if  not  of  the  first 
grade  of  poetry,  are  full  of  the  oil  of  sanctity.  SucTi 
men,  if  lliey  do  not  burn  with  a  fierce  and  dazzling 
flame  to  astomid  their  contemporaries,  or  to  excite  the 
admiration  of  after  ages,  yet  they  shed  a  mild  and  last- 
ing light  of  hope  and  life  on  those  about  them,  and  on 
those  who  follow  them.    They 

'•Allure  to  brighter  worlds  and  lead  the  way." 


THE  INDIAN  PHILOSOPHER. 

Why  should  our  joys  transform  to  pain  1 
Why  gentle  Hymen's  silken  clwin 

A  plague  of  iron  prove? 
Bendysh,  'tis  strange  the  charm  that  binds 
Millions  of  hands,  should  leave  their  minds 

At  such  a  loose  from  love. 

In  vain  I  sought  the  wond'rous  cause, 
Rang'd  the  wide  fields  of  nature's  laws, 

And  urg'd  the  schools  in  vain ; 
Then  deep  in  thought,  witliin  my  breast 
My  soul  retir'd,  and  slumber  dress'd 

A  bright  instructive  scene. 

O'er  the  broad  lands,  and  cross  tlie  tide, 
On  faiiry's  airy  horse  I  ride, 

(Sweet  rapture  of  my  niiud  !) 
Till  on  tlir-  banks  of  Ganaes'  flood, 
In  a  tall  ancient  grove  I  stood, 

For  sacred  use  desipn'd. 
8 


82 

Hard  by,  a  venerable  priest,       ' 
Risen  with  his  god,  the  sun,  from  rest, 

Awoke  his  morning  song ; 
Thrice  he  conjur'd  the  murmuring  stream; 
The  birth  of  souls  was  all  his  theme ; 

And  half-divine  his  tongue. 

"  He"sang  th'  eternal  rolling  flame, 
"  The  vital  mass,  that,  still  the  same, 

"  Does  all  our  minds  compose : 
"  But  shaped  in  twice  ten  thousand  frames : 
"  Thence  differing  souls  of  differing  names, 

"And  jarring  tempers,  rose. 

"  The  mighty  power  that  form'd  the  mind 
"  One  mould  for  every  two  design'd, 

"  And  bless'd  the  new-born  pair : 
"  This  be  a  match  for  this  (he  said) 
"  Then  down  he  sent  the  souls  he  made, 

"  To  seek  them  bodies  here : 

"  But  parting  from  their  warm  abode 
*'  They  lost  their  fellows  on  the  road, 

"  And  never  join'd  their  hands. 
"  Ah  cruel  chance,  and  crossing  fates ! 
"  Our  eastern  souls  have  dropp'd  their  mates 

"  On  Europe's  barb'rous  lands. 

"  Happy  the  youth  that  finds  his  bride 
"  Whose  birth  is  to  his  own  ally'd, 

"  The  sweetest  joy  of  life : 
"  But  oh  the  crowds  of  wretched  souls 
"  Fetter'd  to  minds  of  different  mouldS) 

"  And  chain'd  t'  eternal  strife !" 


83 

Thus  sang  the  wondrous  Indian  bard  ; 
My  soul  with  vast  attention  heard, 

While  Ganges  ceas'd  to  flow : 
'•Sure  then  (I  ericd)  might  I  but  see 
"That  gentle  nymph  that  twinn'd  witli  me, 

"  I  may  be  happy  too. 

"  Some  courteous  angel  tcU  me  where, 
''  What  distant  hinds  tliis  unknown  fair, 

''  Or  distant  sias  detain  ? 
"  Swift  as  the  wiieel  of  nature  rolls 
'*  I'd  fly,  to  meet,  and  mingle  souls, 

''And  wear  the  joyful  chain." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  tone  of  English  hterature  at  this  period  can  be 
traced  in  no  small  degree  to  a  few  fashionable  writers, 
amoncr  whom  Lord  Lyttelton  and  the  Earl  of  Ches- 
terfield shone  conspicuous.  Through  their  influence 
literary  pursuits  became  current  in  the  higher  circles 
of  society.  Lyttelton  was  a  scholar  of  most  exquisite 
taste;  his  ^Tilings  were  all  highly  polished,  but  they 
were  more  refined  than  impassioned,  more  delicate 
and  sentimental  than  deep  and  philosophical,  still  there 
Mas  mufh  gofxl  sense  in  whatever  he  wrote.  In  ])ar- 
lianu-nt  ho  was  chxpient  and  honest,  and  loved  to 
sprak  his  mother  touirne.  In  early  life  he  wandered 
into  thff  ma/es  of  infidelity,  Itut  was  not  sufiered  to  be 
entanyled  there  long  before  tlie  plue  was  given  him  to 
find  hia  way  out  of  darkness  to  the  light.     His  treatise 


84 

on  the  conversion  of  St.  Paul  has  done  much  good  in 
England.  It  is  written  in  a  plain  but  elegant  manner, 
and  served  to  check  the  progress  of  unbelief  in  the 
upper  circles,  and  kept  those  from  sneering  at  religion 
who  had  not  courage  enough  to  examine  the  subject. 
Lord  Lyttelton  wrote  other  works  of  great  merit,  and 
such  as  served  as  models  of  composition  for  the  young 
aspirants  for  literary  fame.  His  dialogues  of  the  dead 
are  full  of  wisdom  and  taste.  They  have  been  imitated 
a  thousand  times.  His  Persian  Tales  have  much  of 
oriental  sweetness  and  imagination  in  them,  and  gave 
the  reading  community  in  England  and  this  country 
a  taste  for  those  lovely  creations  of  the  imagination ; — 
the  Arabian,  Persian,  and  other  Eastern  tales,  now  so 
much  read  in  all  civilized  countries. 

The  poetry  of  Lyttelton  is  smooth,  plaintive,  polish- 
ed, and  sweet.  His  monody  on  his  wife  is  universally 
admired.  There  is  no  rage  in  his  grief.  His  Muse 
wept  as  a  mortal,  but  a  consciousness  that  she  was  a 
celestial  being  shone  through  her  tears,  and  threw 
around  her  an  air  of  pious  dignity. 

Chesterfield  was  fifteen  years  older  than  Lyttelton, 
but  his  literary  labors  did  not  commence  so  soon ;  poli- 
tics absorbed  his  youth,  what  of  it  that  was  not  spent  in 
the  whirl  of  fashionable  life.  He  was  one  of  those  rare 
men  who  raise  and  direct  the  spell  of  fashionable  life, 
which  is  soon  broken  and  passes  away  like  "  the  base- 
less fabric  of  a  vision."  It  was  in  his  reign  and  em- 
pire that  letters  were  made  fashionable.  He  wrote 
with  uncommon  grace  and  ease,  and  every  line  from 
his  pen  punished  or  annihilated  a  blockhead,  as  he 
chose.  He  was  no  less  a  man  of  talents  than  a  man  of 
the  world.    He  saw  every  thing  passing  with  the  ken 


8,') 

of  a  philosopher,  and  his  creed  w.is—ca.pe  diem  ;  he 
enjoyed  whatever  came  in  his  way  wiihoul  wliining  at 
the  inevitable  evils  of  life.     If  some  of  his  jjriiiciiiles 
were  lax,  as  indeed  tlwy  were,  his  precepts  were  ulu  ays 
safe  as  it  regarded  manners.     He  saw  ihrougli  iiu-a  at 
a  glance  and  judged  them  correctly.     He  assisted  luueh 
to  enlighten  and  polish  his  countrymen  by  his  KUi  is  to 
his  son,  but  these  letters  were  but  a  small  part  of  his 
literary  works.      He  published  several  numbers  in  a 
periodical  work  called  the  World,  wliieii  are  admirable, 
both  in  respect  to  style  and  argument.     He  lived  to  old 
age,  and,  like  the  preacher  of  Israel,  saw  that  all  was 
vanity  under  the  sun.      The  whole  drama  of  human 
existence  was  opened  up  to  his  mighty  mind,  and  he 
plunereddeep  into  all  the  pleasures  that  dazzled  bis  ima- 
gination, and  at  length  bore  testimony  that  all  the  illu- 
mination was  a  false  glare ;  for  he  had  been  behind  the 
scenes  and  discovered  all  the  little  dirty  candles  ihat 
lighted  up  the  stage.     The  experience  of  such  a  man 
is  worth  attending  to,  as  full  of  lessons  of  instruction. 
As  a  writer,  his  style  should  be  regarded,  as  having  in 
it  much  to  admire  and  imitate. 

To'  Thomson  we  are  indebted  for  much  pure  de- 
light and  instruction.  He  was  as  amiable  as  it  is  pos- 
sible for  man  to  l)e  in  this  world  of  evil.  He  sung  the 
sea-sons  as  man  has  viewed  them  and  enjoyed  thcni 
ever  since  they  began  to  roll ;  yet  the  reader  wond(»red 
that  he  had  not  felt  them  and  enjoyed  them  precisely 
so  before.  He  did  not  live  long  enouirh  to  give  the 
world  the  mellow  fruits  of  tlie  autumn  of  life;  tiiose 
we  have  were  summer  productions,  grown  under  ge- 
nial suns,  of  beautiful  colours,  and  of  excellent  flavor. 
His  Cattle  of  Indolence  is  superior  to  Ariosto's  Crave 
8* 


of  Sleep  ;  its  images  are  more  natural,  and  the  partial 
activity  is  better  tlian  the  reign  of  silence.  His  Tem- 
ple  of  Liberty  is  full  of  all  that  is  elevated  in  sentiment 
and  praise-worthy  in  history.  The  bright  examples 
cluster  upon  one  another,  and  the  songs  of  freedom  are 
grouped  with  true  poetical  power. 

"  Had  imambitious  mortals  minded  nought, 
But  in  loose  joy  their  time  to  wear  away ; 
Had  they  alone  the  lap  of  dalliance  sought, 
Pleas'd  on  her  pillow  their  dull  heads  to  lay  ; 
Rude  nature's  state  had  been  our  state  to-day  : 
No  cities  e'er  their  towery  fronts  had  rais'd, 
No  arts  had  made  us  opulent  and  gay ; 
With  brother-brutes  the  human  race  had  graz'd ; 
None  e'er  had  soar'd  to  fame,  none  honor'd  been,  none 
prais'd. 

"  Great  Homer's  song  had  never  fir'd  the  breast 
To  thirst  of  glory,  and  heroic  deeds ; 
Sweet  Maro's  Muse,  sunk  in  inglorious  rest, 
Had  silent  slept  amid  the  Mincian  reeds ; 
The  wits  of  modern  time  had  told  their  beads, 
And  monkish  legends  been  their  only  strains  ; 
Our  Milton's  Eden  had  lain  wrapt  in  weeds,  swains, 
Our  Shakspeare  stroU'd  and  laugh'd  with  Warwick 
Nor  had  my  master  Spenser  charm'd  his  MuUa's  plains. 

"  Dumb  too  had  been  the  sage  historic  Muse, 
And  perish'd  all  the  sons  of  ancient  fame ; 
Those  starry  lights  of  virtue,  that  diffuse 
Through  the  dark  depth  of  time  their  vivid  flame, 
Had  all  been  lost  with  such  as  have  no  name. 


87 

Who  then  had  scorn'd  his  ease  for  others'  good  ? 
VTho  then  had  toil'd  rapacious  men  to  tame? 
"Who  in  tlie  public  breach  devoted  stood, 
And  for  his  country's  cause  been  prodigal  of  blood'? 

"  But  should  your  hearts  to  fame  unfeeling  be, 
If  right  1  read,  you  pleasure  all  require: 
Then  hear  how  best  may  be  obtained  this  fee, 
How  best  enjoy'd  this  nature's  wide  desire. 
Toil,  and  be  glad  !  let  industry  inspire 
Into  your  quicken'd  limbs  her  buoyant  breath  ! 
Who  does  not  act  is  dead  ;  absorp'd  entire 
In  miry  sloth,  no  .pride,  no  joy  ho  hath  : 
O  leaden-hearted  men,  to  be  in  love  with  death ! 

"  Ah  !  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of  heaven 
When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go  amiss? 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be  given? 
Health  is  the  vital  principle  of  bliss. 
And  exercise  of  health.     In  proof  of  this, 
Behold  the  wretch,  who  slugs  his  life  away, 
Soon  swallow'd  in  disease's  sad  abyss ; 
While  he  whom  toil  hasbrac'd,  or  manly  play, 
Has  light  as  air  each  limb,  each  thought  as  clear  as  day." 

Laurence  Sterne  was  an  author  once  much  read  in 
liiis  country,  as  well  as  in  England,  and  is  still  relished 
by  many  for  his  wit  and  sentiment;  but  it  will  not  be 
contended  that  his  morals  were  of  a  high  tone,  or  that 
he  ever  awakened  any  true  piety  in  the  enamoured 
reader,  who  generally  arose  from  the  banquet  that 
Stfrnf  had  spread  Ix'forc  liiin  without  any  conscious- 
ness of  a   mind   strengtliened  or  a  heart  improved. 


Modern  writers  say  that  some  of  his  best  things  were 
pilfered  from  "  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy," 
and  strive  to  lessen  his  talents,  because  they  disap- 
prove of  the  moral  tendency  of  his  writings.  That  he 
had  read  the  eccentric  works  of  Burton  there  can  be 
no  doubt,  but  the  fastidious  see  resemblance  where  none 
exist,  and  take  imitations  for  plagiarism. 

Among  the  most  able,  and  yet,  perhaps,  the  least 
read  of  all  the  poets  of  that  age,  was  Akenside.  His 
odes  were  not  highly  esteemed  by  Johnson,  but  more 
modern  writers  have  reversed  his  decision,  and  placed 
them  high  among  the  best  productions  of  the  Muse. 
Lloyd  in  his  address  to  Genius,  hails  him  as  master  of 
the  ode ; 

"  And  thou  bless'd  bard !  around  whose  sacred  brow 
Great  Pindar's  delegated  Avreath  is  hung, 
Arise,  and  snatch  the  majesty  of  song 
From    dullness'    servile  tribe,   and    arts  unhallowed 
throng." 

To  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  the  great  mo- 
ralist was  more  gracious.  He  thought  this  work  a 
proof  of  a  vigorous  mind,  particularly  when  he  consi- 
dered that  its  author  was  only  twenty-three  years  of 
age  when  it  was  written.  Akenside's  studies  as  a  phy- 
sician and  a  philosopher,  led  him  into  the  fields  of  me- 
taphysics, and  his  imagination  tlirew  a  charm  over  all 
that  sprung  up  tliere.  He  discussed  the  powers  of  the 
mind  in.yerse  as  satisfactorily  as  Reed, Stewart,  and 
Brown  have  since  done  in  professed  treatises  upon  the 
subject.  In  truth,  these  metaphysicians  have  drawn 
many  beautiful  illustrations  from  the  Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination. 


89 

*'  I  look'd,  and  lo !  the  former  scene  was  chang'd ; 

For  verdant  alleys  ajid  surrounding  trees, 

A  solitary  prospect  wide  and  wild, 

Rush'd  on  my  senses,     "i'was  an  horrid  pile 

Of  hills  and  many  a  sluiggy  forest  mix'd, 

With  many  a  sable  cliff  and  glittering  stream. 

Aloft  recumbent  o'er  the  hanging  ridge, 

The  brown  womls  wav'd ;  while  ever  trickling  springs 

W;ish'd  from  the  naked  roots  of  oak  and  pine 

The  crumbhng  soil ;  and  still  at  every  fall 

Down  the  steep  windings  of  the  channell'd  rock, 

Remurmuring  rush'd  the  congregated  Hoods 

Willi  hoarser  inundation ;  till  at  last 

They  reach'd  a  grassy  plain,  which  from  the  skirts 

Of  tliat  high  desert  spread  her  verdant  lap, 

And  drank  the  gushing  moisture,  where  confin'd 

In  one  smooth  current,  o'er  the  lilied  vale 

Clearer  than  glass  it  flow'd.     Autumnal  spoils 

Luxuriant  spreading  to  the  rays  of  morn, 

Blush'd  o'er  the  cliffs,  whose  half-encircling  mound 

As  in  a  sylvan  theatre  enclos'd 

That  flowery  level.     On  the  river's  brink 

I  spy'd  a  fair  pavilion,  which  diffus'd 

lus  floating  umbrage  'mid  the  silver  shade 

Of  osiers.    Kow  the  western  sun  reveal'd 

Between  two  parting  cliffs  his  golden  orb, 

And  pour'd  across  the  shadow  of  the  hills, 

On  rocks  and  floods,  a  yellow  stream  of  light 

That  cheer'd  the  solemn  scene.    My  listening  powers 

Were  aw'd,  and  every  thouglit  in  silence  hung, 

And  wondering  expectation.     Then  the  voice 

Of  lliat  celestial  power,  the  mystic  show 

Declaring,  thus  my  deep  atleiilion  call'd." 


90 

'  Shenstone  was  a  poet,  if  not  of  the  highest  gifts, 
that  will  long  be  read  by  the  lovers  of  simplicity  and 
nature.  There  is  a  vein  of  sentiment  running  through 
his  verse  that  is  most  attractive  to  aU  readers.  His  bio- 
graphers say  that  he  was  long  and  painfully  under  the 
influences  of  a  hopeless  passion.  If  the  muses  are 
propitious  to  the  lover,  it  is  seldom  that  their  highest 
revelations  are  vouchsafed  to  those  they  are  fopd  to 
inspire.  Those  with  bleeding  hearts  are  permitted  to 
cull  every  flower  of  the  garden,  but  not  often  invited  to 
drink  of  the  deep  waters  of  the  spring.  His  complaints 
were  others  than  those  of  ill-requited  love !  for  he  la- 
vished his  means  of  living  on  the  grounds  he  kept  for 
pleasure,  and  in  improving  them,  to  show  his  taste, 
laid  the  foundation  of  the  disease  of  which  he  perished. 
His  seat  Avas  near  the  domains  of  a  brother  poet.  Lord 
Lyttelton.  The  ancient  oaks  of  Hagley  over-shadow- 
ed the  shrubbery  and  flowers  of  the  Leasowes,  and 
envy  sprung  up  in  the  breast  of  Shenstone ;  and  the 
charming  windings  in  his  delightful  retreat,  with  its 
sweet  wilderness  of  lioney-suckles  and  roses  did  not 
hide  him  from  his  sharp-eyed  creditor. 

Envy  and  duns  would  sear  the  leaves  of  Eden,  em- 
bitter the  waters  of  the  Euphrates,  and  wither,  root 
and  branch,  the  tree  of  life,  wherever  it  may  grow 

JEMMY  DAWSON.    A  BALLAD. 

Written  about  the  time  of  Jiis  execution,  in  1745. 

Come  listen  to  my  niournfid  tale,  , 

Ye  tender  hearts  and  lovers  dear ; 
Nor  will  you  scorn  to  heave  a  sigh 

Nor  need  you  blush  to  shed  a  tear. 


91 

And  then,  dear  Kitty,  peerless  maid, 

Do  thou  a  pensive  ear' incline; 
For  thou  canst  weep  at  every  woe, 

And  piiy  every  pliiiut — but  mine. 

Young  Dawson  was  a  gallant  boy, 
A  brighter  never  trod  the  plain  ; 

And  well  he  lov'd  one  charming  maid. 
And  dearly  was  he  lov'd  again. 

One  tender  maid,  she  lov'd  him  dear, 
Of  gentler  blood  the  damsel  came,; 

And  faultless  was  her  beauteous  form, 
And  spotless  was  her  virgin  fame. 

But  curse  on  party's  hateful  strife. 
That  led  the  favour'd  youth  astray; 

The  day  the  rebel  clans  appear'd, 
O  had  he  never  seen  that  day  ! 

Their  colours  and  their  sash  he  wore, 
And  in  the  fatal  dress  was  found  ; 

And  now  he  must  tliat  death  endure, 

Which  gives  the  brave  the  keenest  wound. 

How  pale  was  then  his  true-love's  cheek, 
\\Tien  Jemmy's  sentence  reach'd  her  ear ! 

For  never  yet  did  Alpine  snows 
So  pale,  or  yet  so  chill  appear. 

With  fiiultering  voice,  she  weeping  said, 
Oh  Dawson,  monarch  of  my  heart ; 

Think  not  thy  death  shall  end  our  loves, 
For  thou  and  I  will  never  {)art. 


92 

Yet  might  sweet  mercy  find  a  place, 
And  bring  relief  to  Jemmy's  woes  j 

O  George,  without  a  pray'r  for  thee, 
My  orisons  should  never  close. 

The  gracious  prince  that  gave  him  life, 
Would  croAvn  a  never-dying  flame ; 

And  every  tender  babe  I  bore 
Should  learn  to  lisp  the  giver's  name. 

But  though  he  should  be  dragg'd  in  scorn 

To  yonder  ignominious  tree  ; 
He  shall  not  want  one  constant  friend 

To  share  the  cruel  fates'  decree. 

0  then  her  mourning-coach  was  call'd, 
The  sledge  mov'd  slowly  on  before ; 

Though  borne  in  a  triumphal  car, 
She  had  not  lov'd  her  favourite  more. 

She  follow'd  him,  prepar'd  to  view 

The  terrible  behests  of  law ; 
And  the  last  scene  of  Jemmy's  woes, 

Witli  calm  and  stedfast  eye  she  saw. 

Distorted  was  that  blooming  face, 
Which  she  had  fondly  lov'd  so  long; 

And  stifled  was  that  tuneful  breath, 
Wliich  in  her  praise  had  sweetly  sung: 

And  sever'd  was  that  beauteous  neck. 
Round  which  her  arms  had  fondly  clos'dj 


OS 

And  mangled  was  that  beauteous  breast, 
On  uhich  her  love-sick  head  rcpos'd: 

And  ravish'd  was  tliat  constant  heart, 

She  did  to  even'  heart  prefer ; 
For  though  it  could  its  king  forget, 

'Twas  true  and  loyal  still  to  her. 

Amid  those  unrelenting  flames, 
She  bore  this  constant  heart  to  see ; 

But  when  'twas  moulder'd  into  dust. 
Yet,  yet,  slie  cry'd,  I  follow  thee. 

My  death,  my  death  alone  can  show 

The  pure  and  lasting  love  I  bore ; 
Accept,  O  Heav'n !  of  woes  like  ours, 

And  let  us,  let  us  weep  no  more. 

Tlie  dismal  scene  was  o'er  and  past. 
The  lover's  mournful  hearse  retir'd ; 

The  maid  drew  back  her  languid  head, 
And,  sighing  forth  his  name,  expir'd. 

Though  justice  ever  must  prevail. 

The  tear  my  Kitty  sheds  is  due: 
For  seldom  shall  she  hear  a  tale 

So  sad,  so  tender,  yet  so  true. 

The  same  year  with  Akenside,  1721,  Wiis  the  birth 
of  Collins — the  unfortunate  Collins,  His  life  was  short. 
He  passed  from  thn  frenzy  of  a  poet  to  the  fury  of  a 
maniac,  and  died  before  he  reached  liis  forlietli  year. 
His  ode  on  the  Pansionn  will  be  preserved  as  long  as  the 
9 


94 

language  in  which  it  was  written  shall  exist.  It  is  a 
fine  specimen  of  taste,  and  verse,  and  philosophy,  and 
is,  perhap's,  the  first  ode  in  the  whole  range  of  English 
poetry.  It  is  read  in  the  closet  and  spoken  on  the 
stage ;  it  will  never  grow  duU  by  repetition,  or  lose  its 
beauties  by  comparison.  To  excel  where  Dryden, 
Pope,  Akenside,  Gray,  and  many  others  have  been 
eminently  successful,  is  no  smaU  thing, — no  common 
fame.  Who  envies  the  bard  his  muse,  when  she 
brings  so  many  sorrows  in  her  train. 

TO  FEAR. 

Thou,  to  whom  the  world  unknown, 
With  all  its  shadowy  shapes,  is  shown  j 
Who  see'st,  appall'd,  th'  unreal  scene, 
While  Fancy  lifts  the  veil  between: 

Ah  Fear !  ah  frantic  Fear ! 

I  see,  I  see  thee  near. 
I  know  thy  hurried  step  5  thy  haggard  eye  ! 
Like  thee  I  start;  like  thee  disorder'd  fly. 
For,  lo,  what  monsters  in  thy  train  appccir ! 
Danger,  whose  limbs  of  giant  mould 
What  mortal  eye  can  fix'd  beliold  ? 
Who  stalks  his  round,  an  hideous  form, 
Howhng  amidst  the  midnight  storm ; 
Or  throws  him  on  the  ridgy  steep  ' 

Of  some  loose  hanging  rock  to  sleep : 
And  with  him  thousand  phantoms  join'd, 
Who  prompt  to  deeds  accurs'd  the  mind : 
And  those,  the  fiends,  who,  near  allied, 
O'er  Nature's  wounds,  and  wrecks  preside  j 
Wliilst  Vengeance,  in  the  lurid  air. 
Lifts  her  red  arm,  expos'd  and  bare : 


95 

On  whom  that  ravening  brood  of  Fate, 
Who  hip  tlie  blood  of  Sorrow,  wait: 
Who,  Fear,  tliis  ghastly  train  can  see, 
And  look  not  madly  wild,  like  thee  ? 

Tliou  who  such  weary  lengths  hast  past, 
Where  wilt  thou  rest,  mad  Nymph,  at  last! 
Say,  wilt  thou  shroud  in  haunted  cell, 
Where  gloomy  Rape  and  Murder  dwell? 

Or,  in  some  hoUow'd  seat 

'Gainst  wliich  the  big  waves  beat, 
Hear  drowning  seamen's  erics,  in  tempests  brought? 
Dark    power,    with    shuddering,   meek    submitted 

thought, 
Be  mine,  to  read  the  visions  old 
Which  thy  awakening  bards  have  told: 
And,  lest  thou  meet  my  bhisted  view, 
Hold  each  strange  tale  devoutly  true : 
Ne'er  be  I  found,  by  thee  o'eraw'd, 
Inthatthrice-hallow'd  eve,  abroad, 
^^^len  ghosts,  as  cottage-maids  believe, 
Their  pebbled  beds  permitted  leave; 
And  goblins  haunt,  from  fire,  or  fen,  , 

Or  mine,  or  flood,  the  walks  of  men ! 

O  thou,  whot<e  spirit  most  possest 
The  sacred  seat  of  Shakspeare's  breast ! 
liy  all  that  from  thy  prophet  broke, 
In  thy  divine  emotions  spoke ;    • 
Hither  again  thy  fury  deal, 
Toarh  me  but  oner;  like  him  to  feel: 
His  cypress  wreath  my  meed  decree, 
^Vnd  L  O  Fear,  will  dwell  with  thee! 


96 

The  fame  of  Gray  was  established  by  his  "  Pro- 
gress of  Poesy,"  and  other  odes,  but  it  was  increased 
and  extended  by  his  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church- 
Yard."  This  poem  has  been  a  favorite  witli  all  classes 
of  readers, — with  the  learned,  and  the  unlearned.  The 
objects  described  are  touched  with  a  master's  hand; 
they  are  such  as  are  familiar  to  every  d!ie  who  has  re- 
flected at  all  on  such  subjects.  The  reader  finds  a  faint 
image  in  his  own  mind  of  all  Gray  put  into  his  elegy, 
and  perceiving  all  these  slight  outlines  brought  out  and 
coloured  up  by  the  delicate  hand  of  such  a  muse  as 
Gray's,  he  gazes  on  every  part  of  the  wonderful  pro- 
duction with  great  pleasure.  From  the  connected 
harmony  and  keeping  there  is  in  this  production, 
one  would  readily  suppose  that  it  was  struck  off  at  a 
few  happy  musings,  or  fits  of  inspiration,  but  it  was 
not  so  written, — it  was  seven  years  under  the  poet's 
hands ;  from  the  introductory  to  the  closing  line.  He 
who  writes  for  perpetuity  must  not  write  in  haste. 

"  The  gods  sell  every  thing  to  industry." 


TO  ADVERSITY. 

*  Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 

The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best ! 
Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain, 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 


97 

When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 

Virtue,  his  darling  child,  design'd, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth, 

And  bade  to  form  lu-r  infant  mind. 
Stern  rugged  nurse!  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore: 
"\Miat  sorro'i'  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know,' 
And  from  her  own  she  learn'd  to  melt  at  others'  wo. 

Scar'd  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 

Self-pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood, 
Wild  Laugluer,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse;  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe: 
By  vain  Prosperity  receiv'd, 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believ'd. 

Wisdom,  in  sable  garb  array'd, 

Iramers'd  in  rapturous  thought  profoimd, 

And  Melancholy,  silent  maid. 
With  leaden  eye,  that  loves  the  ground, 

StiU  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend : 

Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend. 

With  Justice,  to  herself  severe. 
And  Pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing  tear. 

Oh,  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head, 

Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chast'ning  hand ! 

Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad. 
Not  circled  witli  the  vengeful  band 

(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen) 

WiJh  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mier, 
9* 


98 

With  screaming  Horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty. 

Thy  form  benign,  oh  goddess !  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart, 
Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 

To  soften,  not  to  wound  my  heart.  ^ 
The  generous  spark  extinct  revive, 
Teach  me  to  love,  and  to  forgive, 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scai^, 
Wliat  others  are  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a  man. 

This  period  of  the  Church  of  England,  which  had 
struggled  with  many  difficulties  for  a  century,  and 
longer,  had  now  become  chastened,  and  moderate,  and 
abounded  in  ornaments  of  learning  and  virtue;  and 
she  was  united  with  the  professed  literati  in  the  diffu- 
sion of  letters  and  science. 

The  bar  now  assumed  a  new  character,  and  black- 
letter  lawyers  had  some  respect  for  refinement  and 
polite  literature. 

The  house  of  commons  had  been  changing  its  cha- 
racter ever  since  the  revolution  of  1688.  The  com- 
pact made  with  WUliam  of  Orange,  was  one  that 
enlarged  the  powers  of  parliament,  particularly  the 
house  of  commons,  and  gave  it  a  character  and  dig-- 
nity  that  was  unknown  to  it  before.  The  house  of 
commons  now  became  the  best  field  for  the  growth 
of  intellectual  powers,  and  also  for  the  display  of  them. 
The  views  of  the'commonsexpaitried  with  their  rights 
and  duties.  The  capacity  for  piiMic  speaking  became 
a  passport  to  political  distinction,  and  opened  an  ave- 
nue to  the  ambitious  for  place  and  power.    The  maa» 


99 

ter  spirits  of  that  age  flocked  to  the  bar,  and  tne  house 
of  commons,  not  without  a  few  coniphiints  and  re- 
grets of  those  left  in  the  charming  wanderings  of 
general  literature.  It  was  natural  for  those  who  had 
no  wish  l»  become  statesmen,  to  think  that  all  who 
went  to  the  courts  of  law,  or  into  parliament,  were  lost 
to  letters.  Pope,  speaking  of  this  desertion  of  some  of 
the  gifted  members  of  his  literary  circle,  who  had  left 
it  for  Westminster  Hall,  says: 

"  There  truant  Windham  every  muse  gave  o'er, 
There  Talbot  sunk,  and  was  a  wit  no  more: 
How  sweet  an  Ovid,  Murray  was  our  boast, 
How  many  Martials  were  in  Pultney  lost !" 

Other  mighty  names  were  found  at  the  bar,  or  the 
bench,  and  in  parliament  The  peers,  unwilling  to  be 
outdone,  became  well  acquainted  with  the  forms  of 
business,  and  all  classes  of  society  took  a  new  impetus. 
Eloquence  was  now  cultivated  as  power.  The  elder 
Pitt  is  said  to  have  begun  a  new  era  of  eloquence  in 
the  house  of  commons;  but  one  man,  thougli  he  may 
give  a  name  to  an  era,  cannot  make  one:  There  were 
others  about  him  of  powerful  minds,  and  with  great 
powers  of  eloqucuf  e.  The  eloquence  of  Pitt  was  the 
mo«t  popular  tliat  had  ever  been  heard  within  llie  walls 
of  Parliament.  In  liim,  there  seemed  to  be  a  breaking 
forth  of  the  fountains  of  Grecian  and  Roman  eloquence. 
His  soul  was  lighted  up  with  I  ho  love  of  freedom,  and  his 
memory  stored  with  all  the  knowledge  of  antiquity.  His 
sincerity  was  equal  to  hi-;  inf)ral  bravery,  and  these  were 
only  »urpass<'d  by  his  patriotism.  He  loved  tiic  plau* 
ditt  of  the  people,  and  was  happy  in  the  smiles  of  his 


100 

king,  but  His  country  occupied  his  whole  heart.  Of  the 
great  doctrines  of  liberty  he  was  the  advocate  and 
friend ;  and  was  the  first  statesman  in  England  who 
began  the  course  of  internal  improvements.  He  saw 
the  properties  of  his  said,  and,  kindling  into  the  majesty 
of  creative  power,  he  set  to  work  to  develope  them. 
He  struck  dead  the  power  of  France  in  this  country, 
and  left  it  to  others  to  make  a  peace  upon  his  efforts. 

While  Pitt  was  giving  tone  to  the  nation  by  energy 
and  sagacity,  in  political  life,  Murray  (Lord  Mansfield) 
was  softening,  by  liberal  doctrines  and  expanded  views, 
the  hard  features  of  the  common  law.  He  suffered 
common  sense  and  the  civil  law  to  be  used  when  cus- 
toms were  contradictory  and  common  law  maxims 
could  not  be  reconciled. 

Mansfield  gave  to  legal  opinions  a  new  style  of  dress, 
leaving  the  technicalities  to  the  mere  common-law  law- 
yer, and  assuming  the  right  to  talk  good  English  in 
conveying  his  decisions  to  his  countrymen. 

Before  these  stars  set,  new  constellations  arose  in 
the  hemisphere  of  knowledge — both  in  science  and 
literature ;  and  also  in  politics.  Letters  and  politics 
once  more,  not  only  supported  each  other,  but  were 
trained  in  the  same  school.  Johnson's  circle  in  the 
club-room  was  composed  of  many  who  guided  the  des- 
tinies of  nations  in  the  house  of  commons. 

In  this  circle  was  Goldsmith,  whose  muse  was  all 
simplicity ;  she  brought  to  her  favorite  son  the  Hyblam 
honey,  on  the  oaken  leaf.  He  required  no  trumpet's 
clang  or  golden  shower  to  awake  him  to  duty  ;  but  he 
sought  the  pulsations  of  the  heart,  as  they  beat  in 
friendship  and  affection,  and  he  made  sweet  music  from 
them  all.    His  prose  and  verse  delight  at  every  perusal, 


101 

as  the  sight  of  a  lovely  landscape.  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field and  the  Deserted  Village,  have  a  perpetual  charter 
of  existence.  Youth  conunits  them  to  nicmorj-,  and 
age  repeats  them  when  iiis  eye  can  no  longer  drink  ia 
the  beauties  of  genius  from  the  printed  page. 

•  Thine,  Freedom,  tliine  the  blessings  pictur'd  here, 
Tliine  are  those  charms  tliat  dazzle  and  endear; 
Too  blest,  indeed,  were  such  without  alloy, 
But  foster'd  even  by  Freedom  ills  annoy ; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie. 
The  self-dependant  lordlings  stand  alone, 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown ; 
Here  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held. 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd ; 
Ferments  arise,  imprison'd  factions  roar, 
Represt  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore, 
Till  over-wrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honor,  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  tlie  bonds  of  wealth  and  law. 
Still  gaftier  strensth,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone. 
And  talent  sinks  and  merit  weeps  unknown ; 
Till  time  may  come,  when  stript  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scliolars.  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 
^^'llere  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toil'd  and  poets  wrote  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie. 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonor'd  die. 


102 
« 

Yet  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom's  ills  I  state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  great. 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire  ; 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  aUke  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel ; 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or  favour's  fostering  sun : 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure, 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure : 
For  just  experience  tells  in  every  soil, 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  toil ; 
And  all  that  freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion'd  grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

O  then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms : 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne. 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own ; 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free : 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law ; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillag'd  from  slaves,  to  purchase  slaves  at  home  ; 
Fear,  pity.  Justice,  indignation  start, 
Tear  off"  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart: 
Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
X  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 


103 

Yes,  brotlier,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour 
"When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power; 
And,  thus  polluting  honor  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore, 
Her  useless  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore ; 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  hut  destruction  haste, 
Like  flaring  tapers  brighl'ning  as  they  waste  j 
Seen  Opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain. 
Lead  stern  Depopulation  in  her  train, 
And  over  fields  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
In  barren  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 
Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call, 
The  smiling,  long-frequented  village  fall ; 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd. 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forc'd  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main  : 
Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thund'ring  sound  ? 

Even  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  thro'  dung'rous  ways  ' 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim. 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murd'rous  £iim; 
There,  while  above  tlie  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 
The  pensive  exile  l)ending  witli  his  woe, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine, 
And  bids  his  bowjm  sympathize  w  ith  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  (o  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind  : 
Why  have  I  strayed  from  pleasure  and  repose, 


104 

To  seek  a  good,  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings,  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How, small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure. 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure ! 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd,' 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find  ; 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy. 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damien's  bed  of  steel, 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known. 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own. 

In  this  circle  was  numbered  Edmund  Burke,  who 
was  at  once  a  scholar  and  a  parliamentary  orator  of  a 
high  order;  but  liis  pen  M^as  superior  to  his  eloquence, 
although  he  was  not  surpassed  by  many  who  ever  ap- 
peared in  the  house  of  commons,  in  any  day  of  the 
glory  of  that  intellectual  body  of  men. 

In  him  the  honesty  of  the  patriot  was  united  to 
learning  and  genius.  If  he  was  sometimes  full,  exu- 
berant, and  headstrong,  it  was  from  the  rich  overflow- 
ings of  the  streams  of  thought,  that  gushed  with  irre- 
sistible impetuosity  from  the  deep  fountains  of  intellec- 
tual knowledge.  His  works  are  voluminous,  abound- 
ing with  a  great  variety  of  matter,  and  are  as  famihar 
to  us,  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  as  to  his  own  coun- 
trymen. We  use  his  arguments  to  support  our  opi- 
nions, and  gather  upt  his  learning  to  enlighten  our 
minds.  The  speeches  of  Mr.  Burke  are  more  valuable' 
for  the  information  they  contain,  for  their  bold,  free,  and 
manly  use  of  our  mother  tongue,  than  for  models  for 


105 

our  public  speakers,  for  but  few  minds  could  take  such 
a  range  on  all  subjects  as  he  did.  His  speeches  were 
not  the  engines  of  the  shrewd  debater,  as  ho  thinks  of 
nothing  but  getting  on  with  the  business  part  of  the 
subject,  and  looking  only  to  the  direct  ends  in  view ; 
they  were,  rather,  the  efforts  of  the  gigantic  scholar 
and  the  profound  thinker,  struggling  to  establish  great 
principles,  laboring  with  niigiit  and  main  to  illus- 
trate some  deep  maxim  of  national  pohcy^and  driving, 
at  the  same  time,  at  his  opponents  with  accumulated 
facts  and  profound  arguments,  to  convince  and  subdue. 
But  he  often  thought  that  his  enemy  was  conquered 
when  he  was  only  cloven  down  ;  forgetting  that  grim- 
alkin does  not  boast  of  so  many  lives  as  a  thorough-bred 
pohtical  partizan  ;  for  knock  him  down  as  often  as  you 
please,  by  force  of  reasoning,  he  rises  to  life  before  the 
ayes  and  noes  are  taken,  and  soon  recovers  sufficient 
strength  to  take  another  beating. 

Fox  was  there  also.  He  has  left  the  world  but  few 
mental  labors,  under  his  great  speeches,  and  these 
speeches  were  so  much  confined  to  the  subject  under 
discussion,  and  have  so  direct  a  bearing  on  the  ques- 
tion ip  issue,  that  whatever  might  have  been  their 
power  at  the  time,  they  are  not  so  attractive  or  useful 
to  us  as  those  of  his  more  excursive  friend,  Mr.  Burke. 
Those  who  saw  and  heard  Mr.  Fox  in  debate  have  a 
livelier  sense  of  his  greatness  than  those  who  have 
read  his  speeciies  only,  while  the  warmest  admirers  of 
Burke,  were  those  who  hatl  read  him  most :  and  who 
that  even  read  him  once,  did  not  turn  again  to  refresh 
his  mind  and  to  take  new  views  of  his  mighty  ima- 
ginings ? 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  was  beloved  by  the  wise, 
10 


106 

honored  by  the  great,  and  popular  with  all,  was  one  of 
this  institution.  The  labors  of  his  pencil  are  known  by 
reputation  to  the  world,  but  the  productions  of  his  pen 
were  as  tasteful  and  elegant  as  his  paintings ;  in  both 
all  was  ease  and  finish.  His  lectures  are  a  fine  model 
of  composition ;  a  happy  blending  of  the  simplicity  of 
Goldsmith  and  the  richness  of  Burke.  It  is  said  that 
the  colors  of  his  pallet  have  faded  away,  and  that  his 
loveliest  tints  have  vanished  ;  but  the  productions  of  his 
pen  will  last  while  Raphael  is  remembered,  or  Angelo 
admired.  The  faithful  press  now  preserves  the  images 
and  the  colorings  of  the  mind  free  from  fire,  or  mildew, 
or  Vandal  ravages,  and  robs  time  and  oblivion  of  their 
prey. 

Dr.  Johnson  rose  among  these  columns  of  different 
size  and  beauty,  a  pyramid  of  learning ;  they  were  all 
placed  in  such  a  position  as  to  assist  in  supporting  some 
system  or  institution,  of  which  they  made  a  part,  and 
a  distinguished  one  ;  he  stood  alone  in  his  grandeur. 

To  Dr.  Johnson  we  are  more  indebted  for  our  stock 
of  English  literature  than  to  any  other  Englishman. 
In  biography,  morals,  and  even  in  fiction,  he  wrote  with 
great  power  and  elegance.  If  some  found  fault  with 
his  style,  as  too  abounding  in  mighty  words,  of  diffi- 
cult management  in  ordinary  hands,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  he  was  stronger  than  other  men,  and  some- 
times chose  to  show  that  strength.  No  one  can  deny 
him  energy  of  thought  and  expression;  and  would  it 
not  be  idle  to  ask  for  the  sleekness,  ease,  and  grace,  of 
the  mountain  deer,  when  we  are  examining  the  natural 
history  of  the  elephant  ?  Johnson's  works  will  make 
up  a  part  of  the  stock  literature  for  milhons  yet  unborn. 
From  his  dictionary  we  learnt  our  etymology  and  our 


107 

definitions;  and  we  found  there  some  classical  words 
which  were  not  precisely  household  words,  and  have 
adopted  tlicni,  and  used  them,  until  they  are  familiar 
at  our  fire-sides.  Other  works  of  the  kind  may  take 
its  place,  but  it  will  never  be  forgotten  that  lie  effected 
more,  single-handed  and  alone,  than  all  his  predecessors 
had  done. 

We  are  advocates  for  modern  improvement,  and  de- 
light in  tracing  the  advancements  of  knowledge;  but 
we  desire  not  to  see  the  old  stone  bridge  demolished, 
or  the  Gothic  church  pulled  down. 

WhWe  we  think  that  the  Venetian  shade,  the  Span- 
ish veranda,  the  mafble  mantle-piece,  may  well  be 
added  to  the  good  old  mansion,  with  taste  and  effect, 
we  do  not  envy  that  judgment  which  prefers  a  shell 
and  a  lantern-light,  to  those  rays  which  mildly  pass 
through  tlvo  antique  window. 

Beattie's  Minstrel  has  been  much  admired  as  a  .sweet, 
delicate,  and  tasteful  poem,  abounding  in  beauties  of 
thought,  and  energy  of  style.  The  measure  brings  us 
back  to  Spenser,  and  yet  it  may  be  added  that  the  Minstrel 
has  nothing  to  fear  in  being  put  along  side  of  the  Fairy 
Queen.  If  there  is  not  so  many  soft  tints  in  the  color- 
ing of  the  modern  bard  as  in  the  works  of  his  prede- 
cessor, tliere  is  more  pathos  and  pure  sentiment ;  and 
it  may  safely  be  said  tliat  the  pupil  delights  as  much, 
while  he  detains  you,  which  is  but  a  short  time,  as  his 
master.  Beattie  did  not  confine  himself  to  verse  alone, 
but  was  equally.distinjruislied  as  a  prose  writer.  His 
"  Kssay  on  Truth"  wits  much  admired  in  his  time,  l)oth 
for  matter  and  manner.  The  prose  was  full  of  jjoetry 
and  happily  wrought  up.  The  uppr r  das.ses  read  it 
and  were  forward  in  their  prai.ses,  and  more  moderate 


108 

• 

minds  devoured  it,  for  the  words  were  sweet  in  their 

mouths,  and  had  no  bitterness  any  where. 

The  veteran  poet,  Lord  Lyttleton,  bacams  quite  en- 
amoured with  the  productions  of  his  younger  friend, 
and  he  spoke  of  them  in  such  a  manner  as  awed  the 
pack  of  critics — those  creatures  of  the  hour — to  silence, 
and  the  works  were  handed  over  to  grave  and  solemn 
judges  of  merit,  who  gave  them  proper  praise  and  a 
just  elevation  in  the  temple  of  fame.  His  productions, 
when  they  are  wanting  in  the  profound,  make  up  in  the 
amiable.  Still  he  is  a  man  of  genius,  and  if  he  is  not 
always  rapt  in  the  highest  spirit  of  inspiration,  he  never 
can  be  denied  a  place  among  the  prophets.  He  who 
writes  to  direct  the  minds  of  the  young  to  virtue  does 
more  good  than  he  who  enlightens  the  sage  or  sustains 
the  martyr.  The  highest  efforts  of  genius  are  not 
always  the  most  valuable.  The  luscious  pine  of  the 
tropic,  with  all  the  golden  fruits  of  the  clime,  give  less 
strength  to  the  arm  or  energy  to  the  mind,  than 
the  farinaceous  root  on  which  feed  the  sons  of  the 
EmeraH  Isle,  who  march  to  victory  or  death  with  mili- 
tary glee  ;  who  charm  with  song,  or  conquer  with  elo- 
xjuence. 

Among  those  who  have  done  much  to  make  man- 
kind think  and  write  with  power  and  effect  in  this  age 
vof  Chatham,  Burke,  and  Johnson— for  such  men  give 
a  name  to  the  period  in  which  they  flourish — was  a 
concealed  Avriter  who  styled  himself  Junius,  and  who 
assumed  the  humble  motto — sfat  nominis  umbra.  His 
first  letter  to  the  public  was  dated  1769.  It  was  a  time 
of  great  excitement  in  England.  The  glories  of  the 
administration  of  William  Pitt  (then  Earl  of  Chatham) 
had  been  sunk,  as  it  regarded  the  nation,  into  an  igno- 


109 

minious  peace,  unworthy  llic  great  eiTorts  he  and  the 
nation  had  made.  Fruiuc  liad  bicn  hiunblcd  by  liis 
energy  in  every  part  of  the  globe.  Victory  upon  vic- 
tory had  been  obtained,  and  conquest  after  comjuest 
had  been  achieved  ;  the  main  land  and  the  islands  had 
changed  masters,  and  after  aU  these  glorious  deeds,  a 
miserable  peace — the  peace  of  ALx-la-Chapelle  in  1703 — 
made  by  a  feeble  and  disheartened  ministry,  brought 
the  nation  back  again  to  the  days  of  her  degradation 
juid  distress.  In  these  hours  of  restlessness  and  agi- 
tation, one  political  absurdity  followed  another,  until 
a  civil  war  with  all  its  horrors  threatened  the  British 
empire.  "The  throne  of  England's  king  seemed  to 
totter  under  him,  and  the  patriot  mourned  over  the 
follies  and  wickedness  of  the  times."  Such  was  the 
state  of  affairs  when  Junius  commenced  his  labors.  It 
was  soon  discovered  that  a  great  spirit,  quickened  by 
disappointed  ambition  and  spurred  on  by  honest  indig- 
nation, at  moments  wanned  up  to  revenge,  was  scatter- 
ing his  arrows  among  the  false  advisers  of  the  king, 
with  a  mijility  arm  and  proud  spirit.  His  aim  was 
deadly  and  his  shafts  most  envenomed,  and  even  roy- 
alty vias  not  secure  from  liis  indignation.  The  nation 
was  all  alive  to  these  productions,  and  curiosity  was 
inflamed  by  the  difficulties  of  discovery  ;  but  no  one 
could  penetrate  the  clouds  in  which  he  had  enveloped 
hirasrlf.  These  times  have  passed  away,  and  the  actors 
in  these  scenes  are  gone.  He  foreboded  evils  that  fell 
upon  the  nation  ;  but  even  these,  great  as  they  were, 
are  hardly  remembered ;  while  the  writings  of  Junius  are 
preserved ;  not  a  word  of  them  is  lost— and  never  ran  be 
lost.  It  is  not  the  names  of  lords  and  dukes,  or  kings, 
that  has  kept  them  from  oblivion  :  it  waa,  and  is,  the 
10* 


110 

iniglity  power  of  intellect  that  has,  and  will  keep  them 
embalmed,  with  all  their  biting  sarcasm  and  pungent 
satire,  to  perpetuity. 

Junius  was  a  profound  scholar,  an  active  politician, 
and  a  statesman  of  enlarged  views.  He  was  master  of 
the  history  of  all  ages,  and  skilled  in  the  science  of 
every  government.  He  had  drawn  copiously  from  the 
deep  springs  of  antiquity,  and  was  as  fearless  as  intel- 
lectual. British  history,  from  the  remotest  ages,  was 
as  familiar  to  him  as  household  loords,  and  he  knew  the 
movements  of  every  administration  to  the  minutest  de- 
tails. The  most  cautious  messenger  could  not  enter 
the  postern  door,  nor  ascend,  with  the  most  stealthy 
pace,  the  back  stairs  of  the  palace,  without  his  know- 
ledge. The  birds  of  the  air  brought  him  the  sayings 
and  doings  of  the  king  and  his  council,  nor  did  a  clerk 
copy  a  confidential  paper  that  the  contents  of  it  were 
not  familiar  to  Junius.  Office  had  no  secrets  of  factor 
forms  that  he  did  not  thoroughly  understand.  Of 
America  he  knew  more  than  ministers,  for  the  sources 
■  of  his  information  were  less  clogged  by  prejudices  than 
theirs. 

Junius  was  more  perfectly  acquainted  with  his  mo- 
ther tongue  than  his  coadjutors.  He  had  gone  deeply 
into  the  Saxon  language,  and  his  writings  are  specimens 
of  the  purest  English  that  can  be  found  among  the  am- 
bitious scholars  of  his  age.  He  was  master  of  every 
style  of  composition,  and  used  his  great  power  for  his 
concealment,  and  for  the  purposes  he  labored  to  effect. 
In  thf  midst  of  excited  passions  he  kept  the  most  pro- 
voking command  of  his  temper.  He  laid  bare  the 
nerve  of  feeling  with  so  much  skill  and  science  as 
to  give  it  a  fresh  susceptibility  of  torture  when  it  was 


Ill 

to  be  tried  anew,  and  propiired  for  llie  rack.  No  rank  of 
life  t'scaped  Junius;  lie  catered  the  fashionable  coterie 
and  chaseil  down  the  votary  of  avarice  whenever  his 
conduct  eflccled  pubhc  good.  Those  who  liad  no  en- 
mities to  gratify  read  the  productions  of  this  caustic 
writer  for  a  clioice  of  epitliets,  for  all  his  words  were 
weighed  in  the  balance  and  made  the  just  equipoise  of 
the  sentences  he  intended  to  frame.  Every  political 
writer  since  his  time  has  read  his  letters  to  sharpen  his 
wits  for  the  rencontre  in  the  strife  of  words.  His  imi- 
tators have  swarmed  in  every  period  since,  and  most  of 
them  have  caught  his  niidignity  without  Ins  mind,  and 
many  have  secretly  copied  his  phraseology  without  a 
shred  of  his  mantle  to  assist,  or  cover  them.  Every 
young  eagle  has  whet  his  beak  upon  the  Junian  column 
before  lie  spread  his  wing  or  darted  on  his  prey.  Ju- 
nius lias  been  as  much  known  on  this  as  on  the  other 
side  of  the  water,  and  his  works  have  been  a  standard 
among  the  youths  of  England  and  America ;  nor  has 
this  been  of  any  injury  to  them;  for  they  found  that 
the  most  distant  imitation  could  not  be  effected  without 
the  utmost  care  and  pains.  Labor  is  written  on  every 
imperishable  monument  reared  by  ancient  or  modern 
hands. 

Conjecture  has  been  busy  ever  since  these  writings 
appeared,  to  discover  the  author.  Some  have  supposed 
that  they  had  brought  a  chain  of  facts  and  circum- 
stances that  irresistibly  went  to  prove  the  autl.or,  and 
thousands  became  converts  to  his  reasoning,  but  the 
writer  had  scarcely  laid  down  his  pen  when  some  other 
eiKjuirer  arose  who  was  equally  successful  in  convin- 
cing the  public  that  some  other  man  of  distinction  was 
the  author.    But  no  matter  who  was  the  writer  of  these 


♦  112 

celebrated  letters ;  the  author  discovered  or  not  will  not 
change  our  opinion  of  them  now,  as  their  political  cha- 
racter has  long  since  been  lost — the  literary  alone  re- 
mains. The  works  of  Junius,  vituperative  as  they  are, 
may  be  read  with  profit  by  any  One  who  examines  their 
structure  and  power,  rather  than  the  unforgiving  tem- 
per which  abounds  in  them. 

Churchill  and  Lloyd  were  satirists  of  this  age.      In 
1760,  Lloyd  published  the  Actor,  awork  of  some  merit, 
which  was  soon  followed  by  the  Rosciad  from  Churchill, 
of  still  greater  talent.     Lloyd  was  mild,  good  humored, 
and  dealt  in  general  sarcasm ;  but  Churchill  became 
personal,  and  his  lash  was  felt  more  keenly  than  his 
brother  satirist.    Both  were  improvident  and  profligate, 
and  lost  the  world  because  they  had  not  virtue  enough 
to  use  the  good  things  of  it  without  abusing  them ;  both 
fell  martyrs  to  dissipation  before  the  gray  hair  on  the 
head  of  temperance  would  have  appeared.    The  writ- 
ings of  Churchill  are  read  by  the  lovers  of  genius,  al- 
though they  are  too  loose  for  the  eye  of  youth,  or  for 
female  delicacy.     His  sentiments  were  bitter  and  his 
sarcasms  barbed.     He  turned  his  vengeance  against 
the  stage.    For  some  reason,  perhaps  now  only  conjec- 
tured, he  fell  out  with  the  players,  and  he  laid  about 
him  and  scattered  all  the  heroes  of  the  buskin  and  the 
elite  of  the  sock,  and  treated  them  without  mercy — 
Garrick  alone  excepted,  and  he  was  the  idol  of  the  pack. 
Churchill  more  often  used  the  cleaver  than  the  sword, 
but  struck  so  hard,  and  aimed  his  bloAV  so  adroitly,  that 
he  was  dreaded  by  the  aspirants  of  histrionic  fame,  and 
even  the  veterans  of  the  stage  cursed  or  courted  him  as 
they  felt  or  feared  his  power.     These  satirists  had  been 
initiated  by  Bonnell  Thornton,  and  Colman,  who  were 


113 

i..e  literary  bustlers  of  llie  day, — men  of  talents  and 
wit,  who  were  conipaJaiively  prudent  when  mentioned 
with  Lloyd  and  Cliurchill.  'I'o  these  we  may  add  John 
■\Villi.s.  Thi;re  is  not  much  of  his  poflry  lo  be  found, 
aiKi  his  prose  does  not  prove  him  to  have  been  so  shining 
a  man  as  he  passed  for  in  liis  day.  He  was  a  successful 
demagogue,  and  guihd  tiie  people  out  of  voles  and 
money  almost  as  he  pleased.  Yet  this  dictator  of  the 
public  mind,  this  propagator  of  liberal  i)rinciples,  was 
as  vindictive  as  insinuating,  and  as  profligate  as  witty. 
We  turn  from  this  field  in  which  grew  no  salutary 
plants, — a  field  wliere  a  few  splendid  flowers  were  seen 
with  nightsliade,  hemlock,  and  other  poisonous  weeds, — 
to  one  of  fertiiiiy  and  verdure,  on  which  the  fruits  of 
all  ages  and  nations  are  to  be  found.  The  Wartous, 
Tliomas  and  Joseph,  were  scholars  by  profession : 
Tliomas  wrote  for  a  long  series  of  years  for  the  benefit 
of  his  nation  and  of  mankind.  The  history  of  English 
poetry  wu.s  a  labor  of  great  magnitude.  He  lived  to 
finish  four  volumes  of  it,  and  left  much  to  be  done. 
He  was  laureate,  and  brought  up  that  cliaracter  when 
it  had  been  let  down  by  the  appointmentofColley  Gibber. 
Whenever  tlie  laureate  was  named  a  smile  was  seen  on 
the  Ups  of  the  man  of  taste,  and  the  fashionable  world 
laughed  outright ;  but  the  elegant  odes  of  Warton 
brought  the  name  of  laureate  into  reputation  once  more. 
He  was  for  ten  years  a  professor  of  poetry  at  the  uni- 
versity of  Cambridge,  and  in  this  arduous  character  he 
was  popular  with  all.  His  lectures  were  much  attend- 
ed and  were  considered  both  sound  and  l)rilliarit.  His 
odes  are  among  the  first  of  that  class  of  poetry  that 
have  come  down  to  us.  The  Crusade,  the  Suicide,  the 
tJravcof  Arthur,  arc  full  of  invention,  choice  of  Ian- 


114 

guage,  and  exquisite  expression.  His  brother  Joseph 
was  his  senior  in  years  but  lived  to  finish  some  of  the 
professor's  works.  His  genius  was  not  inferior  to  his 
brother's,  but  he  spent  more  of  his  time  in  the  duties  of 
a  theologian,  and  less  in  the  wanderings  of  general 
literature,  yet  they  deserve  to  go  down  to  posterity 
hand  in  hand,  as  benefactors  of  mankind,  for  there  is 
nothing  in  the  writings  of  either  that  could  offend  the 
most  delicate  taste,  or  injure  the  purest  morals. 

i 

THE  SUICIDE. 

Beneath  the  beech,  whose  branches  bare, 
Smit  with  the  light'ning'slivid  glare, 

O'erhang  the  craggy  road. 
And  whistle  hollow  as  they  wave ; 
Within  a  solitary  grave, 
.A  slayer  of  himself  holds  his  accurs'd  abode. 

Lour'd  the  grim  morn,  in  murky  dies 
Damp  mists  involv'd  the  scowling  skies, 

And  dimm'd  the  struggling  day  ; 
As  by  the  brook  that  lingering  laves 
Yon  rush-grown  moor  with  sable  waves, 
Full  of  the  dark  resolves  he  took  hii$  sullen  way. 

I  mark'd  his  desultory  pace, 

His  gestures  strange,  and  varying  face, 

With  many  a  mutter'd  sound  ; 
And  ah  !  too  late  aghast  I  view'd 
The  reeking  blade,  tlic  hand  embrued  ; 
He  fell,  and  groaning  grasp'd  m  agony  the  ground. 


115 

Full  many  a  melancholy  night 

lie  watfh'd  the  slow  rolurn  of  light;. 

And  sought  the  powers  of  sleep, 
To  spread  a  raomentiwy  calm 
O'er  his  sad  couch,  and  in  the  balm 
Of  bland  oblivion's  dews  his  burning  eyes  to  steep. 

Full  oft,  unknowing  and  unknown, 
He  wore  his  endless  noons  alone ; 

Amid  th'  autumnal  wood 
Oft  was  he  wont,  in  hasty  fit, 
Abrupt  the  social  board  to  quit, 
And  gaze  with  eager  glance  upon  the  tumbling  flood. 

Beckoning  the  wretch  to  torments  new, 
Despair  for  ever  in  his  view, 

A  spectre  pale,  appcar'd; 
While,  as  the  shades  of  eve  arose, 
And  brought  the  day's  unwelcome  close, 
More  horrible  and  huge  her  giant-shape  she  rear'd. 

"Is  this,"  mistaken  Scorn  will  cry, 
"  Is  this  the  youth  whose  genius  high 

'Could  build  the  genuine  rhyme? 
\Miose  bosom  mild  the  favouring  muse 
Had  stor'd  with  all  her  ample  views, 
Parent  of  fairest  deeds,  and  purposes  sublime." 

All  I  from  the  muse  that  bosom  mild 
By  treaclierous  magic  was  beguil'd, 

To  strike  the  deathful  blow  ; 
She  fill'd  his  soft  ingenuous  mind, 


116 

With  many  a  feeling  too  refin'd, 
Aiid  rous'd  to  livelier  pangs  his  wakeful  sense  of  wo. 

Though  dooln'd  hard  penury  to  prove, 
And  the  sharp  stings  of  hopeless  love ; 

'  To  griefs  congenial  prone, 
More  wounds  than  nature  gave  he  knew, 
While  misery's  form  his  fancy  drew 
In  dark  ideal  hues,  and  horrors  not  its  own. 

Then  wish  not  o'er  his  earthy  tomb 
The  baleful  nightshade's  lurid  bloom 

To  drop  its  deadly  dew ; 
Nor  oh !  forbid  the  twisted  thorn, 
That  rudely  binds  his  turf  forlorn. 
With  spring's  green-swelling  buds  to  vegetate  anew. 

What  though  no  marble -piled  bust 
Adorn  his  desolated  dust. 

With  speaking  sculpture  wrought  ? 
Pity  shall  woo  the  weeping  nine. 
To  build  a  visionary  shrine. 
Hung  with  unfading  flowers,from  fairy  regions  brought. 

What  though  refus'd  each  chanted  rite  ? 
Here  viewless  mourners  shall  delight 

To  touch  the  shadowy  shell : 
And  Petrarch's  harp  that  wept  the  doom 
Of  Laura,  lost  in  early  bloom, 
In  many  a  pensive  pause  shall  seem  to  ring  his  knell. 

To  soothe  a  lone,  unhallow'd  shade, 
This  votive  dirge  sad  duty  paid, 


117 

Within  an  ivied  nook : 
Sudden  the  half-sunk  orb  of  day 
More  radiant  shot  its  parting  ray, 
And  thus  a  cherub- voice  my  charni'd  attention  took: 

"  Forbear,  fond  bard,  thy  partial  praise; 
Nor  thus  for  guilt  in  specious  lays 

The  wreath  of  glory  twine : 
In  vain  witli  hues  of  gorgeous  glow 
Gay  fancy  gives  her  vest  to  flow. 
Unless  truth's  matron-hand  the  floating  folds  confine. 

"  Just  heaven,  man's  fortitude  to  prove, 
Permits  througli  life  at  large  to  rove 

The  tribes  of  hell-born  wo: 
Yet  the  same  power  that  wisely  sends 
Life's  fiercest  ills,  indulgent  lends 
Religion's  golden  shield  to  break  the  embattled  foe. 

"  Her  aid  divine  had  luU'd  to  rest 

Von  foul  self-murderer's  throbbing  breast, 

And  stay'd  the  rising  storm : 
Had  bade  the  sun  of  hope  appear 
To  gild  his  darken'd  hemisphere, 
And  give  the  wonted  bloom  to  nature's  blasted  form. 

"  Vain  m;m  !  'tis  heaven's  prerogative 
To  t;ikf,  what  first  it  deign'd  to  give, 

Thy  tributnrv'  breath  : 
In  awful  cxpc^rtation  phic'd, 
Await  thy  doom,  nor  inipfous  haste 
To  pluck  from  God's  right  hand  his  inslnimcntsof 
death.**  TViomas  Warton. 

11 


118 


TO  SUPERSTITION. 

Hence  to  some  convent's  gloomy  isles, 

Where  cheerful  daylight  never  smiles : 
Tyrant !  from  Albion  haste,  to  slavish  Rome ; 

There  by  dim  tapers'  livid  light. 

At  the  still  solemn  hours  of  night, 
In  pensive  musings  walk  o'er  many  a  sounding  tomb. 

Thy  clanking  chains,  thy  crimson  steel, 

Thy  venom'd  dart,  and  barbarous  wheel, 
Malignant  fiend  !  bear  from  this  isle  away, 

Nor  dare  in  error's  fetters  bind 

One  active,  free-born  British  mind  ; 
That  strongly  strives  to  spring  indignant  from  thy  sway. 

Thou  bad'st  grim  Moloch's  frowning  priest 

Snatch  screaming  infants  from  the  breast. 
Regardless  of  the  frantic  mother's  woes ; 

Thou  led'st  the  ruthless  sons  of  Spain 

To  wond'ring  India's  golden  plain. 
From  deluges  of  blood  where  tenfold  harvests  rose. 

But  lo !  how  swiftly  art  thou  fled. 

When  reason  lifts  his  radiant  head ! 
When  his  resounding,  awful  voice  they  hear, 

Blind  ignorance,  thy  doting  sire, 

Thy  daughter,  trembling  fear,  retire  ; 
And  all  thy  ghastly  train  of  terrors  disappear. 

So  by  the  Magi  hail'd  from  far, 
Wlien  Phoebus  mounts  his  early  car, 


119 

The  shrieking  gliost^  lo  iheir  dark,  charnels  flock  ; 

The  full-gorg"cI  wolves  retreat;  no  more 

The  prow  ling  lionesses  roar, 
But  hasten  with  their  prev  to  some  deep-cavern'd  rock. 

Hail  then,  ye  friends  of  Reason,  hail, 

Ve  foes  to  .AIyslery"s  odious  veil ! 
To  Trmirs  high  temple  guide  my  steps  aright, 

Where  Clarke  and  Wollaston  reside, 

With  Locke  and  Newton  by  their  side, 
^\■hile  Plato  sits  above  enthron'd  in  endless  night. 

Joseph  War  ton. 


CHAPTER  V. 

From  the  best  days  of  the  literary  club,  to  those 
poets  who  now  are  most  conspicuous  in  the  public 
view,  there  was  thought  to  have  been  a  great  dearth 
of  English  poetry.  Cowper  and  Sir  William  Jones 
ran  hardly  be  said  to  have  belonged  to  the  first  class, 
nor  exactly  to  the  second  Cowper  had  taste  and  ta- 
lents, with  highly  respectable  acquirements.  Some 
of  his  poetry  is  sweet,  and  all  of  it  honest  and  moral. 
Tlie  readers  of  his  poetry  always  rise  from  tiie  perusal 
of  his  graver  poems  with  improvement  and  delight. 
There  is  a  perfume  in  virtuous  thoughts  that  lasts  long, 
and  never  entirely  perishes.  Cowper  preaches  admi- 
rably in  verse.  We  should,  perhaps,  have  liad  uiucli 
more  from  liis  pen,  if  the  demon  of  melauchdly  iiad 
not  been  8ufl"cred  to  seize  upon,  and  chain  down  his 
nind  for  many  a  year. 


120 

The  delicate  bosom  bared  to  the  storms  of  life  often 
.  finds  an  energy  growing  out  of  every  occasion  to  sup- 
port and  comfort  it ;  but  imaginary  evils  to  a  sensitive 
mind  are  often  worse,  a  hundred  times  worse,  than 
real  ones.  It  was  so  with  Cowper.  He  had  no  real 
difficulties  to  contend  with  ;  he  was,  as  it  were,  cradled 
and  rocked  by  affection  all  his  life. 

"  Chains  are  the  portion  of  revolted  man, 
Stripes,  and  a  dungeon ;  and  his  body  serves 
The  triple  purpose.    In  that  sickly,  foul. 
Opprobrious  residence,  he  finds  them  all. 
Prepense  his  heart  to  idols,  he  is  held 
In  silly  dotage  on  created  things, 
Careless  of  their  Creator.    And  that  low 
And  sordid  gravitation  of  his  powers 
To  a  vile  clod,  so  draws  him,  with  stich  force 
Resistless  from  the  centre  he  should  seek, 
That-he  at  last  forgets  it.    All  his  hopes 
Tend  downward  ;  his  ambition  is  to  sink. 
To  reach  a  depth  profounder  still,  and  still 
Profounder,  in  the  fathomless  abyss 
Of  folly,  plunging  in  pursuit  of  death. 
But  ere  he  again  the  comfortless  repose 
He  seeks,  and  acquiescence  of  his  soul 
In  Heav'n-renouncing  exile,  he  endures — 
What  does  he  not,  from  lusts  oppos'd  in  vain. 
And  self-reproaching  conscience  1     He  foresees 
The  fatal  issue  to  his  health,  fame,  peace. 
Fortune,  and  dignity  ;  the  loss  of  all 
That  can  ennoble  man  and  make  frail  life. 
Short  as  it  is,  supportable.     Still  worse, 
Far  worse  than  all  the  plagues  with  which  his  sins 


121 

Infect  his  happiest  iiioniciits,  he  forebodes 
Ages  of  liopt'less  mis'ry.     Future  death, 
And  death  still  future.     Not  a  hasty  stroke, 
Like  tiiat  which  sends  liini  to  the  dusty  grave: 
But  unrepealable,  ejiduring,  deatli. 
Scripture  is  still  a  trumpet  to  his  fears: 
What  none  can  prove  a  forgery,  may  be  true; 
What  none  but  bad  men  wish  exploded,  must 
That  scruple  checJis  him.     Riot  is  not  loud 
Nor  drunk  enough  to  drown  it.     In  the  midst 
Of  laughter  his  compunctions  are  sincere; 
And  he  abhors  the  jest  by  which  he  shines. 
Remorse  begets  reform.     His  master-lust 
Falls  first  before  his  resolute  rebuke, 
And  seems  dethron'd  and  vanquish'd.    Peace  ensues. 
But  spurious  and  short  liv'd :  the  puny  child 
Of  self-congratulating  Pride,  begot 
On  fancied  Innocence.     Again  he  falls, 
And  fights  again ;  but  finds  his  best  essay 
A  presage  ominous,  portending  still 
Its  own  dishonor  by  a  worse  relapse. 
Till  nature,  unavailing  nature,  foil'd 
So  oft,  and  wearied  in  the  vain  attempt, 
Scoffrf  at  her  own  performance.    Reason  now 
Takes  part  with  appetite,  and  pleads  the  cause 
.^erversely,  which  of  late  she  so  condemn'd.: 
With  shallow  shifts  and  old  devices,  worn 
And  tatter'd  in  the  service  of  debauch, 
Covriiig  his  shame  from  his  oflended  sight. 
'■  Hath  God  indeed  giv'n  appetites  to  man. 
And  stored  the  earth  so  plenteously  with  means 
To  gratify  the  hunger  of  his  wish ; 
And  doth  he  reprobate,  and  will  he  danm 
11* 


122 

The  use  of  his  owti  bounty  ?  making  first 

So  frail  a  kind,  and  then  enacting  laws 

So  strict,  that  less  than  perfect  must  despair  ? 

Falsehood  !  which  wlioso  but  suspects  of  truth, 

Dishonors  God,  and  makes  a  slave  of  man. 

Do  they  themselves,  who  undertake  for  hire 

The  teacher's  office,  and  dispense  at  large 

Their  weekly  dole  of  edifying  strains, 

Attend  to  their  own  music  ?  have  they  faith 

In  what,  with  such  solemnity  of  tone 

And  gesture,  they  propound  to  our  belief? 

Nay — Conduct  hath  the  loudest  tongue.    The  voice 

Is  but  an  instrument,  on  which  the  priest 

May  play  what  tune  he  pleases.     In  the  deed, 

The  unequivocal,  authentic  deed, 

We  find  sound  argument,  we  read  the  heart." 

Sir  William  Jones  was  confessedly  the  most,  accom- 
plished man  of  his  age.  He  was  a  mathematician, 
poet,  lawyer,  linguist,  and  in  all  branches  was  superior 
to  most  men.  His  name  will  not  be  forgotten  in  Eng- 
land, or  in  India.  His  character  was  as  pure  as  his 
talents  were  exalted.  He  was  exiled  to  India  under 
the  specious  appointment  of  a  judge-ship;  for  there 
were  men  high  in  power  who  feared  his  virtues,  for 
they  were  all  on  the  side  of  liberal  principles,  such 
principles  as  are  founded  on  Teason,  and  are  to  be 
maintained  by  argument.  He  was  the  first  orientalist 
of  his  age  before  he  left  England  for  India,  but  when 
he  arrived  in  the  East  he  pursued  his  studies  with 
youthful  ardor,  not  merely  for  the  fame  lie  might  ac- 
quire by  his  exertions  in  this  way,  but  for  the  purpose 
of  enlightening  mankind.    He  translated  the  laws  of 


123 

India  in  order  to  admiiuster  justice  to  the  millions 
luider  British  control;  by  doing  this  he  quieted  the 
jealousies  of  Hindoo  law-givers,  and  all  who  were  in- 
fluenced by  them.  This  was  not  all — he  examined  the 
Veda  and  made  us  acquainted  with  its  contents.  He 
pushed  his  researches  into  the  theology  of  the  East, 
and  traced  a  thousand  mysteries  to  their  origin,  and 
they  were  no  longer  mysteries.  Egyptian  and  Grecian 
mythology  had  until  his  time  bounded  the  vision  of 
all  those  who  were  anxiously  looking  behind  the  veil 
of  Isis.  He  did  not  remove  it,  but  he  showed  how  it 
was  made.  He  examined  the  learning  of  the  East, 
and  proved  how  much  philosophy  and  taste  it  possess- 
ed. He  gave  oriental  poetry  in  English  measure,  and 
while  he  chastened  the  wild  and  extravagant  fancies  of 
the  original,  he  gave  new  beauties  to  his  vernacular 
language,  by  infusing  into  it  new  melody,  and  throw- 
mg  around  a  severe  thought  the  fascinations  of  ro- 
aiance.  He  tarried  too  long  on  the  banks  of  the  Gan- 
ges, and  wearied  himself  too  much  by  tracing  the 
origin  of  the  river  gods,  and  following  them  in  all  the 
strange  shapes  they  had,  in  the  succession  of  ages 
assumed,  to  liieir  original  notliingne.ss.  It  is  clicering 
to  the  heart  to  find  such  a  mind  as  that  of  Sir  AVilliam 
Jones ;  after  pondering  long  and  examining  thorough- 
ly— assisting  us  by  his  researches  to  stop  the  mouth 
of  the  infidel,  and  by  the  results  of  the  most  profound 
inductions,  putting  many  things  that  were  doubtful 
bc-fore,  on  the  firmest  biisis  of  truth. 

He  died  in  the  prime  of  manliood,  in  his  forty-se- 
venth year.  His  was  a  frame  exhausted  by  too  much 
mental  labor.  The  oriental  world  is  now  opening  its 
treauures  to  uh,  and  on  every  leaf  that  is  wafted  to  us 


124 

his  image  and  superscription  Will  be  \<7ritten — a  monu- 
ment that  can  never  crumble  to  the  dust.  His  fame, 
like  the  eternal  aloes,  will  be  ever  green,  but  unlike 
this  survivor  of  nations,  it  will  bloom  perpetually,  not 
once  in  a  hundred  years  only,  which  is  said  to  be  the 
time  for  this  plant  to  bring  forth  her  flowers. 


SOLIMA: 

AN  ARABIAN  ECLOGUE. 

"  Ye  maids  of  Aden !  hear  a  loftier  tale 
Than  e'er  was  sung  in  meadow,  bower,  or  dale. 
— The  smiles  of  Abelah,  and  Maia's  eyes, 
Where  beauty  plays,  and  love  in  slumber  lies ; 
The  fragrant  hyacinths  of  Azza's  hair. 
That  wanton  with  the  laughing  summer  air ; 
Love-tinctur'd  cheeks,  whence  roses  seek  their  bloom. 
And  lips,  from  which  the  zephyr  steals  perfume  j 
Invite  no  more  the  wild  unpolish'd  lay. 
But  fly  hke  dreams  before  the  morning  ray. 
Then  farewell  love  !  and  farewell  youthful  fires ! 
A  nobler  warmth  my  kindled  breast  inspires. 
Far  bolder  notes  the  listening  wood  shall  fill : 
Flow  smooth,  ye  rivulets :  and,  ye  gales,  be  stiU. 

"See yon  fair  groves  that  o'er  Amana  rise, 
And  with  their  spicy  breath  embalm  the  skies ; 
Where  every  breeze  sheds  incense  o'er  the  vales, 
And  every  shrub  the  scent  of  musk  exhales  ; 
See  through  yon  opening  glade  a  glittering  scene, 
Lawns  ev^  gay,  and  meadows  ever  green ; 
Then  ask  tne  groves,  and  ask  the  vocal  bow'rs. 
Who  deck'd  their  spiry  tops  with  blooming  flow'rs, 


125 

Taught  the  blue  streams  o'er  sandy  viUcs  to  flow, 

And  the  brown  vild  with  livchest  hues  to  glow? 

Fair  SoUma  I  the  hills  and  dales  will  sing; 

Fair  Solima !  the  distant  echoes  ring,* 

But  not  with  idle  shows  of  vain  delight, 

To  charm  the  soul  or  to  b(.'guilethe  sight; 

At  noon  on  banks  of  ple;isure  to  repose, 

\Miere  bloom  entwinVl  the  lily,  pink,  and  rose  ; 

Not  in  proud  piles  to  heap  the  nightly  feast. 

Till  morn  with  pearls  has  deck'd  the  glowing  east; 

Ah  !  not  for  this  slie  taught  those  bowers  to  rise. 

And  bade  all  Eden  spring  before  our  eyes ; 

Far  other  thoughts  her  heavenly  mind  employ, 

(Hence,  empty  pride  !  and  hence,  delusive  joy!) 

To  cheer  with  sweet  repast  the  fainting  guest; 

To  lull  the  weary  on  the  couch  of  rest ; 

To  warm  the  traveller  numb'd  with  winter's  cold : 

The  young  to  cherish,  to  support  the  old  ; 

The  sad  to  comfort,  and  the  weak  protect; 

The  poor  to  shehcr,  and  the  lost  direct; — 

Tliese  are  her  cares,  and  this  her  glorious  task ; 

Can  Heavr-n  a  nohlfr  (jivp,  or  mnrtalfs  ask? 

Come  to  these  groves,  and  these  life-breathing  glades, 

Ye  friendless  orphans,  and  ye  dowerless  maids, 

With  eager  haste  your  mournful  mansions  leave. 

Ye  weak,  that  tremble  ;  and,  ye  sick,  that  grieve ; 

Here  shall  soft  tents,  o'er  flowery  lawns  display 'd, 

At  night  defend  you,  and  at  noon  o'ershade  ; 

litre  rosy  health  the  sweets  of  life  shall  shower, 

And  new  dflights  beguile  each  varied  liour. 

Mounis  there  a  widow,  batli'd  in  streaming  tears  ? 

*  t'  '.vr><  ;i  t  ^.'\  y  In  |M.<  pirt  of  the  tmn^litlnn  tnnvoM  a  tfrn  ilmUar  toUuU 
Of  Voiii:  111  Uic  well  kiiuwii  descriptluii  of  lliu  .Man  of  KiiSf. 


126 

Stoops  there  a  sire  beneath  the  weiglit  of  years  ? 
Weeps  there  a  maid,  in  pining  sadness  left, 
Of  tender  parents,  and  of  hope,  bereft? 
To  Sohma  their  sorrows  they  bewail : 
To  Solima  they  pour  tlieir  plaintive  tale. 
She  hears  ;  and,  radiant  as  the  star  of  day, 
Through  the  thick  forest  gains  her  easy  way ; 
She  asks  what  cares  the  joyless  train  oppress, 
What  sickness  wastes  them,  or  what  wants  distress ; 
And,  as  they  mourn,  she  steals  a  tender  sigh. 
Whilst  as  her  soul  sits  melting  in  her  eye : 
Then  wi'th  a  smile  the  healing  balm  bestows, 
And  sheds  a  tear  of  pity  o'er  their  woes ; 
Which,  as  it  drops,  some  soft-eyed  angel  bears 
Transform'd  to  pearl,  and  in  his  bosom  wears. 

"When,  chill'd  with  fear,  the  trembling  pilgrim  roves 
Through  pathless  deserts  and  through  tangled  groves, 
Where  mantling  darkness  spreads  her  dragoCi  wing, 
And  birds  of  death  their  fatal  dirges  sing. 
While  vapors  pale  a  dreadful  gUmmering  cast, 
And  thrilling  horror  howls  in  every  blast ; 
She  cheers  his  gloom  with  streams  of  bursting  light, 
By  day  a  sun,  a  beaming  moon  by  night ; 
Darts  through  the  quivering  shades  her  heavenly  ray, 
And  spreads  with  rising  flowers  his  solitary  way. 

Ye  heavens,  for  this  in  showers  of  sweetness  shed 
iYour  mildest  influence  o'er  her  favor'd  head  ! 
Long  may  her  name,  which  distant  climes  shall  praise, 
Live  in  our  notes,  and  blossom  in  our  lays ! 
And  like  an  odorous  plant,  whose  blushing  flow'r 
Paints  every  dale,  and  sweetens  every  bow'r, 
Borne  to  the  skies  in  clouds  of  soft  perfume. 
For  ever*flourish,  and  for  ever  bloom ! 


127 

These  grateful  songs,  ye  maids  and  youths,  renew, 
^^'hile  fresh-blown  violets  drink  the  pearly  dew ; 
O'er  Azib's  banks  while  love-lorn  damsels  rove, 
And  gales  of  fragrance  breathe  from  Hagiir's  grove." 
So  sung  the  youth,  whose  sweetly  warbled  strains 
Fair  Mena  heard,  and  Saba's  spicy  plains, 
Soolh'd  with  his  lay,  tlie  ravish'd  air  was  calm. 
The  winds  scarce  whisper'd  o'er  the  waving  palm ; 
The  camels  bounded  o'er  the  flow'ry  lawn. 
Like  the  swift  ostrich,  or  the  sportful  fawn ; 
Their  silken  bands  the  listening  rose-buds  rent, 
And  twin'd  their  blossoms  round  his  vocal  tent: 
He  sung,  till  on  the  bank  the  moonlight  slept. 
And  closing  flowers  beneath  the  night-dew  wept, 
Then  ceas'd,  and  slamber'd  in  the  lap  of  rest 
Till  the  shrill  lark  had  left  his  low-built  nest : 
Now  hastes  the  swain  to  tune  his  rapturous  tales 
In  other  meadows,  and  in  other  vales. 

About  the  time  of  the  French  revolution,  a  new  race 
of  poets  arose  in  P^ngland,  who  gave  a  new  turn  to 
thoughts  and  a  novel  form  to  expression.  The  old 
school  was  given  up  by  them,  and  they  set  up  for 
themselves. 

These,  by  way  of  assumption  of  their  own,  and 
afterwards  by  derision,  were  called  the  Lake  poets. 
Those  geniuses  were  dissatisfied  with  things  as  they 
were,  and  were  determined  to  adhere  to  no  ancient 
rules.  They  considered  mankind  as  going  on  in  error, 
and  were  engaged  by  bonds  of  sympatliy  to  revive  the 
world,  and  to  change  it  from  its  imbecility  and  dotage, 
to  a  glorious  new  birth.  Southey — now  the  staid  and 
solemn  Southey,  the  aristocrat, — was  at  their  bead. 


128 

These  Lake  poets  took  their  name  from  a  hauat  of 
their's  around  the  Cumberland  lakes,  but  this  seclusion 
was  not  entirely  satisfactory  to  themselves,  and  they 
contemplated  migrating  to  the  western  world  and  there 
forming  a  literary  society  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio. 
Coleridge  was  of  this  society;  but  these  visionaries 
found  difficulties  in  getting  recruits,  and  some  were 
forced,  and  some  concluded,  to  stay  at  home.  The 
prose  writers  were  many  of  them  as  mad  as  these  vo- 
taries of  the  muse.  Godwin  was  as  wild  in  his  "  Poli- 
tical Justice'^  as  any  rhymer  of  them  all,  and  his  fol- 
lowers were  numerous.  Southey  found  employment 
and  good  bread  by  his  engagements  for  his  native 
country,  and  thus  moderated  his  feelings  at  first,  and 
then  changed  them,  and  after  a  few  years  reformed 
them  altogether.  In  this  delirium,  however,  Southey 
wrote  some  of  his  best  poems.  It  would  be  in  vain  to 
deny  to  Southey  a  fine  genius.  He  says  that  he  has 
been  reviewed  more  than  seventy  times  ;  and  we  find, 
on  looking  at  some  of  these  reviews,  that  every  thing 
has  been  said  of  him,  from  the  severest  condemnation, 
to  the  most  unqualified  panegyric ;  and  in  some  re- 
spects all  his  reviewers  were  riglit.  There  are  some 
glorious  breathings  of  liberty  in  his  Madoc,  and  other 
early  productions,  and  much  of  the  magic  of  the  muse 
in  Thalaba  and  Joan  of  Arc.  His  prose  is  admirable, 
and  contains  no  small  quantity  of  poetical  spirit.  His 
biographer  may  be  cited  to  prove  my  assertion.  There 
were  some  of  the  poets  of  that  day  who  did  not 
suffer  by  the  mania,  and  among  them  was  Samuel 
Rogers.  He  was  well  educated,  and  well  disciplined. 
After  enjoying  the  benefit  of  a  classical  education  and 
foreign  travels,  he  sat  down  to  business  as  a  banker, 


129 

aiid  pursued  his  profession  with  tlie  attention  and  cor- 
rectness of  tlie  sole-devoted  sons  of  trade.  Goldsmith 
was  his  model,  and  he  labored  his  lines  with  ten  times 
his  master's  care,  if  not  always  with  his  master's  suc- 
cess. Perhaps  the  English  language  does  not  afford  a 
more  finished  composition  in  regard  to  language  than 
the  "Pleasures  of  Memory."  He  wrote  because  he 
felt  the  inspiration,  and  polished  his  verse  and  chasten- 
ed his  language,  because  he  was  too  scrupulous  to  give 
his  country  a  specimen  of  careless  or  unfinished  poe- 
try. He  was  born  in  1762,  and  of  course  is  now  an 
old  man,  and  if  his  muse  has  lost  some  of  her  fire,  his 
heart  has  lost  none  of  its  warmth.  It  was  Rogers  who 
came  in  to  soothe  the  last  pangs  of  Sheridan  as  he  was 
drinking  the  dregs  of  the  cup  of  his  misfortunes  and 
his  follies,  on  his  death-bed. 

VERSES, 

WRITTEN  TO  BE  SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  SIDD0N9. 

Yes.  'tis  the  pulse  of  life  !  my  fears  were  vain! 
I  wake,  I  breathe,  and  am  myself  agsyn. 
Still  in  this  nether  world;  no  seraph  yet! 
Nor  walks  my  spirit,  when  the  sun  is  set, 
With  troiiblf'd  step  to  haunt  the  fatal  board, 
Whert-  I  died  l;u'<t— by  poison  or  tl>e  sword  ; 
Blanching  each  honest  cheek  with  deeds  of  night, 
Done  here  so  oft  by  dim  and  doubtful  light. 
—To  drop  all  metaphor,  that  little  bell 
L'aird  bark  reality,  and  broke  the  spell. 
No  heroine  claims  your  tears  with  tragic  tone; 
A  very  woman — scarce  restrains  her  own  ! 
Can  she,  with  fiction,  charm  the  cheated  mind, 
When  to  be  grateful  is  the  part  assign'd?  12 


130 

Ah,  no !  she  scorns  the  trappings  of  her  art, 
No  theme  but  truth,  no  prompter  but  the  heart  I 

But,  ladies,  say,  must  I  alone  unmask  ? 
Is  here  no  other  actress  ?  let  me  ask. 
Believe  me,  those,  who  best  the  heart  dissect, 
Know  every  woman  studies  stage-effect. 
She  moulds  her  manners  to  the  part  she  fills, 
As  instinct  teaches,  or  as  humor  wiUs ; 
And,  as  the  grave  or  gay  her  talent  calls, 
Acts  in  the  drama,  till  the  curtain  falls. 

First,  how  her  little  breast  with,  triumph  swells, 
"When  the  red  coral  rings  its  golden  bells  I 
To  play  in  pantomime  is  then  the  rage, 
Along  the  carpet's  many  colour'd  stage  ; 
Or  lisp  her  merry  thoughts  with  loud  endeavor, 
Now  here,  now  there — in  noise  and  mischief  ever ! 
A  school-girl  next,  she  curls  her  hair  in  papers. 
And  mimics  father's  gout,  and  mother's  vapours  j 
Discards  her  doll,  bribes  Betty  for  romances; 
Playful  at  church,  and  serious  when  she  dances j 
Tramples  alike  on  customs  and  on  toes, 
And  whispers  all  slie  hears  to  all  she  knows ; 
Terror  of  caps,  and  wigs,  and  sober  notions ! 
A  romp  !  that  longest  of  perpetual  motions  ! 
— Till  tam'd  and  tortur'd  into  foreign  graces. 
She  sports  her  lovely  face  at  public  places  ; 
And  with  blue,  laughing  eyes,  behind  her  fan, 
First  acts  her  part  with  that  great  actor,  man. 

Too  soon  a  flirt,  approach  her  and  she  flies !  ' 
Frowns  when  pursued,  and,  when  entreated,  sighs ! 
Plays  with  unhappy  men  as  cats  with  mice. 
Till  fading  beauty  hints  the  late  advice. 
Her  prudence  dictates  what  her  pride  disdain'd, 
And  now  she  sues  to  slaves  herself  had  chain'd  I 


131 

Then  comes  that  good  old  character,  a  wife, 
With  all  tlu'  dear,  distracting  cares  of  life; 
A  thousand  cards  a  day  at  doors  to  leave, 
And,  in  return,  a  thousand  cards  receive  ; 
Rou^e  high,  play  deep,  to  lead  the  ton  aspire, 
Willi  niglitly  blaze  set  Portland-place  on  fire; 
Snatch  half  a  glimpse  at  concert,  opera,  ball, 
A  meteor,  trac'd  by  none,  tho'  seen  by  all ; 
And,  when  lier  shatter'd  nerves  forbid  to  roam, 
In  very  spleen — rehearse  the  girls  at  home. 

I«a~:t  tlie  grey  dowager,  in  ancient  flounces, 
With  snutTand  spectacles,  tlie  age  denounces  ; 
IJoasts  how  the  sires  of  this  degenerate  isle 
Knelt  for  a  look,  and  duell'd  for  a  smile, 
The  scourge  and  ridicule  of  Goth  and  Vandal, 
Her  tea  she  sweetens,  as  she  sips,  with  scandal; 
With  modern  belles  eternal  warfare  wages, 
Like  her  own  birds  that  clamour  from  their  cages 
Juxd  ohiifflps  rnunH  to  bcar  hf^r  tale  to  all. 
Like  some  old  ruin,  "  nodding  to  its  fall!" 

Thus  woman  makes  her  entrance  and  her  exit; 
Not  least  an  actress  when  she  least  suspects  it. 
Yet  nature  oft  peeps  out  and  mars  the  plot, 
Each  lesson  lost,  each  poor  pretence  forgot ; 
Full  oft,  with  energy  that  scorns  control, 
At  onre  lights  up  tlic  features  of  the  soul; 
Unlocks  each  thought  chai n'd  down  by  coward  art, 
And  to  full  day  the  latent  passions  start ! 

— And  Hhe,  whose  first,  best  wish  isyour  applaiuse, 
Herself  exemplifies  the  truth  she  draws. 
Born  on  tlie  stage — thro'  every  shifting  .scene, 
Obwure  or  bright,  tempestuous  or  serene, 
fJtill  lia«  your  emile  her  trembling  spirit  fir'd! 


132 

And  can  she  act,  Avitli  thoughts  hke  these  inspir'd  ? 
Thus  frbm  her  mind  all  artifice  she  flings, 
All  sjcill,  all  practice,  now  unmeaning  things  ! 
To  you,  uncheck'd,  each  genuine  feeling  flows  ! 
For  all  that  life  endears— to  you  she  owes. 

Thomas  Campbell  has  filled  a  great  space  in  English 
poetry  for  more  than  thirty  years.  He  was  born  in 
1777.  He  was  made  professor  in  th-e  royal  •  institute, 
ahd  gave  lectures  on  poetry  which  are  in  print ;  and  if 
they  are  not  all  we  might  have  expected  from  the  au- 
thor of  the  Pleasures  of  Hope,  they  are  learned  and 
smooth,  and  abound  in  striking  passages.  He  has  also 
given  lectures  on  Greek  literature — a  subject  of  deep 
interest  to  the  scholar. 

The  "  Pleasures  of  Hope"  is  a  splendid  poem.  It 
was  written  for  perpetuity.  Its  polish  is  exquisite,  its 
topi-cs  felicitously  chosen,  and  its  illustrations  natural 
and  heaiitifiil-  This  is  jinpfry,  philoeophioal  and  plain, 
hut  full  of  imagination.  There  are  no  startling  para- 
doxes, no  abrupt  endings  or  beginnings  in  this  poem,— 
it  is  as  pure  as  day  and  as  sweet  as  summer.  He 
lifts  you  up  to  an  exceeding  high  mountain,  and 
you  see  all  nature  in  her  loveliness,  and  man  in  the 
truth  of  his  character,  Avith  hope  irradiating,  cheering, 
and  sustaining  him  in  the  numerous  ills  of  life.  "  Ger- 
trude of  Wyoming"  is  preferred  by  some  readers  even 
to  his  "  Pleasures  of  Hope."  It  is  a  sad  tale,  told  with 
tenderness  as  well  as  genius.  But  if  these  never  had 
been  written  his  songs  would  have  given  him  claims  as 
a  first  rate  poet.  They  cover  sea  and  land.  Their  spi- 
rit stirs  the  brave  whatever  may  be  their  field  of  fame  j 
whether  the  snow  is  to  be  their  winding  sheet  or  the 


133 

deep  their  grave.  National  songs  are  of  the  most  diffi- 
cult production  and  of  the  highest  vidue.  They  are 
the  soul  of  national  feeling  and  a  safeguard  of  national 
honor.  They  are  readily  impressed  on  the  memory, 
and  never  forgotten  when  acquired.  They  are  fitted 
to  every  instrument  and  every  voice.  They  are  on  the 
lips  of  infants,  and  are  breathed  from  the  dying  pa- 
triot's breath. 

England  has  not  been  wanting  in  patriotic  songs, 
but  that  composed  by  Peterborough,  and  sung  by 
Wolfe  on  the  eve  of  battle,  and  many  others  that  have 
assisted  to  rouse  drooping  spirits,  are  not  equal  to  those 
of  Campbell.  "  Ye  mariners  of  England"  will  live  as 
long  as  there  is  a  timber  left  of  the  British  navy.  The 
spirit  of  a  great  poet  not  only  goes  back  to  what  has 
passed  in  the  affairs  of  man,  but  carries  with  it  the 
hopes  of  future  times. 

Campbell  not  only  sung  the  mighty  but  unsuccessful 
struggle  of  the  Poles  when  Kosciusko  fell,  but  shadow- 
ed forth  that  distinct  and  awful  determination  of  man 
which  is  inherent  in  his  nature,  and  which  time  will 
bring  forth  sooner  or  later  to  put  down  all  oppression. 
Every  great  poet  is  indeed  a  seer  for  his  country's 
good,  and  not  that  only  but  for  the  good  of  mankind. 

"  Oh  !  righteous  heaven  !  ere  Freedom  found  a  grave, 
"Why  slept  thy  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  ? 
Whore  was  thine  arm,  O  Vengeance,  when  thy  rod. 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God, 
Tliat  crushed  proud  Ammon  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath  and  thundered  from  afar? 
Where  was  the  storm  that  shimbered  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stain'd  Pharaoh  left  the  trembling  coast, 


134 

Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 
And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  ? 

Departed  spirits  of  tlie  mighty  dead ! 
Ye  who  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled  ! 
Friends  of  the  world  !  restore  your  swords  to  man  I 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van. 
Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone, 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  thine  own. 
Oh  !  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 
The  patriot  Tell — the  Bruce  of  Bannockburn  ! 

Yes,  thy  proud  lord's  unpitied  land  shall  see 
That  man  has  yet  a  soul  and  dare  be  free. 
A  little  while  along  thy  saddening  plains 
The  starless  night  of  Desolation  reigns. 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  nature  given, 
And  like  Prometheus  bring  the  fire  from  heaven. 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurl'd, 
Her  name,  her  nature,  withered  from  the  world. 

Ye  that  the  rising  morn  invidious  mark, 
And  hate  the  light — because  your  deeds  are  dark  j 
Ye  that  expanding  truth  invidious  view, 
And  think  or  wish  the  song  of  Hope  imtrue. 
Perhaps  your  little  hands  presume  to  span 
The  march  of  genius  and  the  povv'rs  of  man, 
Perhaps  ye  watch  at  pride's  unhallowed  shrine 
Her  victims  newly  slain — and  thus  divine, 
Here  shall  thy  triumph  Genius  cease,  and  here 
Truth,  Science,  Virtue,  close  your  short  career. 

Tyrants  in  vain  ye  trace  the  wizzard  ring  ; 
In  vain  ye  limit  mind's  unwearied  spring. 
What !  can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 
Arrest  the  rolling  world  or  chain  the  deep  ? 
No,  the  wild  wave  contemns  your  sceptred  hand  j 


135 

Tt  rolled  not  back  when  Canute  gave  command. 
Man  !  can  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow  ; 
Still  must  thou  live  a  blot  on  nature's  brow  ; 
Shall  War's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  furl'd  ; 
Shall  crime  and  tyrants  cease  but  with  the  world. 
What !  are  thy  triumphs,  sacred  Truth,  belied  1 
AMiy  then  hath  Plato  lived,  or  Sidney  died  1" 

Sarmatia  is  awake  and  armed  to  hurl  oppression  to 
the  dust.  The  soul  of  the  patriot  is  hers — she  dares 
attempt  to  be  free!  Hope  is  still  alive — her  warriors 
are  firm  and  undismayed — the  departed  spirits  of  the 
mighty  dead  are  with  her ;  not  only  those  of  Marathon 
and  Leuctra.  but  the  shade  of  Kosciusko  "  walks  ima- 
venged  amongst  them."  May  the  sword  be  omnipotent 
to  save!  Tell,  Bruce,  Washington,  will  be  there  also. 
May  the  starless  night  of  desolation  be  followed  by 
the  da^vn  of  freedom — and  the  poet's  song  and  the  pro- 
phet's voice  be  all  truth — sound,  historic  truth — in  this 
struggle  for  liberty ! 


HOHENLINDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  th'  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 


136 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  wilh  thunder  riv'n, 
Then  rush'd  the  steed  to  battle  driv'n, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly.  v 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  lurid  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.    On,  ye  brave. 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich !  all  thy  banners  wave 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre^ 


137 


CHAPTER  VI, 

Chabbe  is  now  an  uM  nidn ;  his  life  has  been  one  of 
professional  duties  and  of  great  virtue.  He  has  l:ad 
uo  eccentricities  or  aberrations.  His  Iffe  exhibits  no- 
thuig  for  the  world  lo  censure  or  deplore.  He  is  now 
almost  an  octagenarian,  and  tlie  muse  lias  inspired  him, 
perhaps,  as  long  as  she  will.  His  works  are  both  ad- 
mirable and  novel.  He  truly  took  a  n"w  pathway  to 
fame.  His  portraits  are  mostly  from  humble  life — he 
has  shown  their  vices  and  their  virtues.  The  world 
had  heard  enough  of  their  vices,  but  few  in  the  reading 
circles  had  been  taught  their  virtues.  His  profession 
had  made  him  acquainted  with  both.  He  could  read 
their  hearts  and  he  has  delineated  their  character  most 
faithfully.     It  is  one  of  the  facts  in  the  history  of  man, 

tkot  hia  aflfcctioua  may  be   purified   ^^-hilo    hLs    mind    is 

only  partirUly  enlightened.  This  fact  was  known  to  the 
careful  reader  of  human  nature,  but  had  in  a  great 
measure  been  overlooked  by  the  poet.  Agreeable 
images  suited  the  poet  best,  or  if  not  those  at  all  times, 
strikiiig  incidents,  he  thought  seldom  occurred  in  the 
lives  of  the  humble,  or  if  they  did  occur,  they  were 
not  likely  to  be  noticed.  Crabbe  probed  deep,  and  gave 
an  honest  account  of  the  misery  and  anguish,  and  the 
sources  of  joy  of  the  poor.  His  works  are  yet  to  be 
more  known  and  admired  than  they  have  yet  been,  for 
in  time  the  pf>or  will  read  them,  wliicb  is  not  the  rase 
now.  He  who  softens  the  anguish  of  the  wretched,  or 
suggests  to  them  any  method  of  ameliorating  tlieir  con- 
dition, is  a  benefactor  of  mankind.     Crabbe  will  go 


138 

down  to  posterity  as  a  moralist  and  a  poet  together, 
and  one  too,  that  the  church  may  be  proud  of.  It  may 
be  said  that  the  poor  had  no  poet  until  Crabbe  arose. 
He  has  given  their  sorrows  and  their  joys  without  one 
particle  of  coarseness.  Those  his  Saviour  cherished 
he  has  portrayed,  and  like  him  he  has  taught  them  to 
hope  for  another  and  a  better  world.  Such  a  man  does 
more  good  than  a  thousand  proud  men,  who  can  only 
look  on  what  is  classical  and  refined.  In  the  grave 
there  are  no  distinctions,  and  to  that  condition  we  must 
all  come  at  last.  There  is  no  difference  'now  between 
the  dust  of  Lazarus  and  that  of  the  mighty  Caesar  and 
the  great  Napoleon.  The  great  enemy  of  man  is  a 
leveller,  and  to  him  we  must  yield  sooner  or  later.  He 
who  encourages  the  faint  and  weary  in  the  journey  of 
life  is  a  servant  of  God  and  a  friend  to  man,  and  verily 
will  receive  his  reward,  both  in  the  life  that  is,  and  In 
that  which  is  to  come.    Crabbe  has  asked  no  honors 

and  reeoivod    no   dietinotione    for    hia    acrvicco,  except 

such  as  the  public  awards  to  merit.  He  has,  in  imita- 
tion of  his  divine  master,  washed  the  feet  of  his  disci- 
ples and  prepared  himself  for  the  burial. 

When  the  monuments  of  sublime  genius  have  crum- 
bled to  dust,  and  are  remembered  no  more,  the  labors 
of  the  pious  survive ;  they  fertilize,  as  it  were,  the  soil  of 
hope,  and  reap  and  secure  the  harvest  of  faith.  The 
poor  of  unborn  ages  will  acknowledge  that  he  led  them, 
by  his  writings,  to  patience,  resignation,  and  unwaver- 
ing belief,  which  softened  their  hard  fates  and  lighted 
up  in  them  bright  and  glorious  visions  of  immortality 
and  happiness,  when  the  miseries  of  existence  should 
:be  over. 


139 


PHCEBE  DAWSOX. 


Two  summers  since,  I  saw  at  Lammas  fair, 
Tlie  sweetest  flower  tliat  ever  blo&?om'd  there, 
AN'hen  PhcBbe  Dawson  gaily  cross'd  the  green, 
In  haste  to  see  and  happy  to  be  seen : 
Her  air,  hor  manners,  all  who  saw,  admir'd; 
Courteous  though  coy,  and  gentle  though  retir'd  j 
Tlie  joy  of  youth  and  health  her  eyes  display'd, 
And  ease  of  heart  her  every  look  convey'd  : 
A  native  skill  her  simple  robes  express'd, 
As  with  untutor'd  elegance  she  dress'd  : 
The  lads  around  admir'd  so  fair  a  sight. 
And  Phoebe  felt,  and  felt  she  gave,  delight. 
Admirers  soon  of  every  age  she  gain'd, 
Her  beauty  won  them  and  her  worth  retain'd ; 
Envy  itself  could  no  contempt  display. 
They  wish'd  lier  well,  whom  yet  they  wish'd  away. 
Correct  in  thought,  she  judg'd  a  servant's  place 
Preserv'd  a  rustic  beauty  from  disgrace  ; 
I?ut  yet  on  Sunday-eve  in  freedom's  hour, 
\Vith  secret  joy  she  felt  that  beauty's  power 
AVhen'some  proud  bliss  upon  tlie  heart  would  steal, 
That,  poor  or  rich,  a  beauty  still  must  feel. — 

At  length,  the  youth,  ordain'd  to  move  her  breast, 
Before  the  awaips  with  bolder  spirit  press'd  ; 
M  hh  looks  less  timid  made  his  passion  known, 
And  pieasM  by  manners,  mos1  imlike  her  own  ; 
liOud  though  in  love,  and  confident  tlioutfh  young; 
Fierce  in  his  air,  and  voluble  of  tongue; 
By  trade  a  tailor,  thouch,  in  scorn  of  trade. 
He  sen'M  the  wjuire,  and  brush'd  the  coat  he  made: 


140 

Yet  now,  would  Phoebe  her  consent  afford, 
Her  slave  alone,  again  he'd  mount  the  board  ; 
With  her  should  years  of  growing  love  be  spent, 
And  growing  wealth : — she  sigh'd,  and  look'd  consent. 

Now,  through  the  lane,  up  hill,  and  cross  the  green, 
(Seen  by  but  few,  and  blushing  to  be  seen — 
Dejected,  thoughtful,  anxious,  and  afraid,) 
Led  by  the  lover,  walk'd  the  silent  maid  : 
Slow  through  the  meadows  rov'd  they  many  a  mile, 
Toy'd  by  each  bank  and  trifled  at  each  stile ; 
Where,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view, 
And  highly  color'd  what  he  strongly  drew. 
The  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears, 
Dimm'd  the  false  prospect  with  prophetic  tears. — 
Thus  pass'd  th'  allotted  hours,  till  lingering  late, 
The  lover  loiter'd  at  the  master's  gate ; 
There  he  pronounced  adieu !  and  yet  would  stay, 
Till  chidden — sooth'd — intreated — forc'd  away  ; 
He  Avould  of  coldness,  though  indulg'd,  complain, 
And  oft  retire  and  oft  return  again  ; 
When,  If  his  teazing  vex'd  her  gentle  mind, 
The  grief  assum'd,  compell'd  her  to  be  kind ! 
For  he  would  proof  of  plighted  kindness  crave, 
That  she  resented  first  and  then  forgave. 
And  to  his  grief  and  penance  yielded  more, 
Than  his  presumption  had  requir'd  before. — 
Ah  !  fly  temptation,  youth ;  refrain  !  refrain, 
Each  yielding  maid,  and  each  presuming  swain  I 

Lo  !  now  with  red  rent  cloak  and  bonnet  black. 
And  torn  green  gown  loose  hanging  at  her  back 
One  who  an  infant  in  her  arms  sustains, 


141 

And  seems  in  patience  striving  with  her  pains ; 
Pinch'd  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for  bread, 
AVliose  cares  are  growing  and  whose  hopes  are  fled  j 
Pale  her  parch'd  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low. 
And  tears  unnotic'd  from  their  channels  flow ; 
Serene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain 
Frets  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she's  calm  again  :— 
Her  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes, 
And  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes ; 
For  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arm.s. 
But  nearer  cause,  her  anxious  soul  alarms. 
With  water  burthen'd,  then  she  picks  her  way, 
Slowly  and  cautious,  in  the  clinging  clay ; 
Till,  in  mid-green,  she  trusts  a  place  unsound. 
And  deeply  plunges  in  th'  adhesive  ground  ; 
Thence,  but  with  pain,  her  slender  foot  she  takes. 
While  hope  the  mind  as  strength  the  frame  forsakes: 
For  when  so  full  the  cup  of  sorrow  grows, 
Add  but  a  drop  it  instantly  o'erflows. 
And  now  her  path  but  not  her  peace  she  gains, 
Safe  from  her  task,  but  shivering  with  her  pains; 
Her  home  she  reaches,  open  heaves  the  door. 
And  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  flo(ir. 
She  bares  her  bosom  to  flie  wind,  and  sits 
And  i?of)bing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits : 
In  vain— tliey  come — she  feels  th' inflating  grief, 
That  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief; 
That  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a  soul  distress'd, 
Or  the  sad  laugh  that  cannot  be  repress'd. 
The  neighbor-matron  leaves  her  wheel  and  flies 
W  ith  all  the  aid  her  poverty  supplies; 
T'nfcf'd,  llie  calls  of  naturff;lie  obeys, 
Not  led  by  profit,  nor  alhir'd  by  praise; 
13 


142 

And  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease, 
She  speaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace. 

Friend  of  distress !  the  mourner  feels  thy  aid, 
She  cannot  pay  thee,  but  thou  wilt  be  paid. 

But  who  this  child  of  weakness,  want  and  care  ? 
'Tis  Phoebe  Dawson,  pride  of  Lammas  fair ; 
"Who  took  her  lover  for  his  sparkling  eyes. 
Expressions  warm,  and  love-inspiring  lies  : 
Compassion  first  assail'd  her  gentle  heart. 
For  all  his  suffering,  all  his  bosom's  smart: 
"  And  then  his  prayers  !  they  would  a  savage  move, 
And  win  the  coldest  of  the  sex  to  love." — 
But  ah  !  too  soon  his  looks  success  declar'd, 
Too  late  her  loss  the  marriage-rite  repair'd ; 
The  faithful  flatterer  then  his  vows  forgot, 
A  captious  tyrant  or  a  noisy  sot ; 
If  present,  railing,  till  he  saw  her  pain'd  ; 
If  absent,  spending  what  their  labors  gain'd ; 
Till  that  fair  form  in  want  and  sickness  pin'd, 
And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind. 

Tlien  fly  temptation,  youth  ;  resist,  refrain  ! 

Nor  let  me  preach  for  ever  and  in  vain  ! 

Poetry  is  not  alone  to  be  regarded  in  mod'^j-n  litera- 
ture ;  other  departments  of  knowledge  must  be  ex- 
amined. Histories,  which  had  been  confined  to  a  succes- 
sion of  battles,  and  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  empires,  now 
entered  into  the  motives  of  men  in  power,  and  looked 
to  the  springs  of  human  action.  Instead  of  being  mere 
describers  of  events,  historians  brought  philosophy  and 
criticism  to  assist  in  their  labors,  and  exhibited  on  their 
pages  a  most  interesting  variety  of  matter  for  lessons 
of  study  and  reflection. 


143 

Hume  had  been  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  historical  power, 
but  the  investigations  of  his  successors  have  left  him  in 
the  rear;  and  they  have  gone  on  to  more  accurate  rela- 
tions  and   sounder  reasonings  upon  human  actions. 
Lingard  with  profound  research  and  patient  investiga- 
tion has  removed  many  of  the  stumbling  blocks  in 
English  history.     W'hul  David  Hume  only  slurred  over, 
Lingard  has  brought  up  with  great  power  of  discern- 
ment and  fairness.     And  if  in  all  things  he  is  not  pre- 
cisely correct,  he  is  a  nearer  approximation  to  truth 
than  any  of  his  predecessors.     The  best  history  I  have 
ever  seen  of  England  (and  her  history  is  the  most  im- 
portant to  us  of  any  other  except  our  own,  though  the 
history  of  the  two  countries  be  intimately  connected) 
is  that  of  Sharon  Turner,  taking  his  "  Saxon  antiqui- 
ties" and  English  history  together.     It  is  only  brought 
down  to  the  time  of  Elizabeth  as  yet,  but  he  is  still  en- 
gaged in  the  work.     There  is  a  spirit  of  research,  an 
elegance  and  an  eloquence  in  it,  not  surpassed  by  any  one 
who  has  ever  attempted  the  great  work  of  p]nglish  his- 
tory.   Sir  James  Mc  Intosh  is  now  engaged  in  a  liistory 
of  England,  and  as  far  as  he  has  gone  it  is  excellent. 
Portions  of  English  history  have  bepn  written  by  able 
"  hands,  and  are  of  course  more  minute  than  theirs  whose 
plan  waS  a  general  history.     Godwin  and  Fox   have 
tried  t!ieir  powers  upon  portions  of  English  history, 
and   their  names  secured  them  readers.     One  of  the 
most  successful  of  tliese  is  Croly's  George  the  IVtli. 
If  the  grave  divine  in  his  work  has  broken  in  u;ion 
the  dignity  and  .staidness  of  history  as  it  was  once  un- 
derstood, he  has  made  ample  amends  in  the  fluency  of 
his  narrative  and  in  the  riehness  of  his   ime:i!otes,  but 
he  has  written  too  soon  to  be  free  from  party  prejiulir-es. 


144 

There  is  also  an  agreeable  blending  of  subjects  in  liis 
work  that  makes  it  one  of  the  most  interesting  produc- 
tions of  modern  times,  although  we  would  not  be 
thought  to  follow  him  in  aU  his  conclusions.  It  has,  it 
is  true,  a  great  freedom  of  remark,  but  no  licentious- 
ness of  purpose.  His  aim  was  honest  and  his  course 
manly.  George  the  IV th,  from  his  pen,  rises  in  conse- 
quence and  dignity,  with  all  the  errors  of  his  youth  on 
his  head.  The  thousand  anecdotes  of  his  profligacy 
in  early  days  tire  "  nothing  extenuated,  nor  aught  set 
down  in  malice,"  but  told  in  honest  truth,  and  his  re- 
deeming qualities  are  placed  side  by  side  with  his  faults. 
In  this  worii  "the  great  macliinery  of  English  society  is 
exhibited  and  explained  with  a  fearlessness  that  does 
honor  to  the  head  and  heart  of  the  historian.  His  mo- 
narch is  now  his  subject,  and  he  treats  him  in  a  prince- 
ly manner.  It  is  the  pride  of  the  literary  man  that  all 
ages  and  all  classes  of  men,  come  at  his  wish,  and  are 
dismissed  at  "his  bidding.  And  who  can  question  his 
authority  7 

li  is  difficult  to  speak  of  Moore  witliout  saying  too 
little  of  his  beauties  or  his  faults.  No  man  was  ever 
more  felicitous  than  he  in  his  peculiar  style  of  writing. 
He  attacked  the  heart  through  the  medium  of  the 
senses,  and  if  his  spells  were  not  lasting,  they  were  all 
powerful  while  tliey  existed.  His  muse  came  not  from 
Pindus  braced  with  mountain  air,  but  all  redolent  from 
the  paradise  of  Mahomet,  full  of  joy  and  enchantment, 
bordering  upon  intoxication.  The  young  read  his  pro- 
ductions with  avidity,  and  the  old  wondered  at  his 
power  over  words.  His  sweets  never  cloy,  nor  can  it 
be  said  that  he  is  ever  vulgar,  however  sensual.  His 
§are  Apician  dainties,  and  therefore  more  dangerous.  It 


115 

must  be  confessed  that  in  liis  hUt  poclical  works  Iiohas 
atoned  for  the  k)Osen;.';-s  of  his  earlier  writings.  It  is 
to  be  rei^retted  that  he  should  ever  have  written  ti\e 
lives  of  Sheridan  and  Byron.  These  works  can  i,lono 
good.  The  exposure  of  tiie  follies  of  these  extriiordi- 
n.iry  men  neitlier  deter  the  rising  generation  from  \iie 
nor  enhiihten  the  minds  of  tliose  who  are  out  of  dan- 
ger from  such  examples.  This  iiigh  authority  will  in- 
duce many  to  draff  into  public  view  the  faults  of  less 
distinguished  persons,  and  the  grave  which  formerly 
hid  the  sins  of  ordinary  men  may  do  so  no  longer.  'I'o 
say  nothing  of  the  dead,  but  wluil  is  good  is  too  i\^ar- 
row  a  rule,  but  all  the  truth  should  not  be  spok(  n  of 
every  one,  unless  its  publication  can  benefit  the  com- 
munity. These  liberties  of  the  press  destroy  ll;e  re- 
spect witli  which  the  exalted  in  mind  or  station  were 
formerly  regarded.  The  follies  and  vices  of  these  su- 
perior beings  bring  them  down  to  the  level  of  vulgar 
minds.  One  of  the  greatest  tics  of  the  social  compact 
was  the  gravity  and  dignity  that  were  attached  to  know- 
ledge and  experience.  The  philosophers  proclaimed 
liberty  and  equality  in  France,  in  1789,  but  the  true 
spirit  of  it  not  being  understood  by  the  lower  or  ers 
they  caught  the  hatred  to  tyranny,  ami  with  tlie  op- 
pressors, swept  away  the  philosophers  also. 

But  to  return  to  the  poetry  of  .Moore.  He  is  unw  in 
his  prime,  and  may  woo  tlie  muse  for  many  a  sunny 
day,  and  more  entirely  redeem  his  early  aberrations. 
IJut  we  beg  of  him  to  give  no  more  lives  in  this  "-lyle. 
If  he  would  take  up  some  lioly  ni;tn  whose  diM  -  ii:id 
abotmded  in  incident, and  tlirow  around  him  llir  :  .\  s  of 
liis  poetical  peiiius,  lie  would  mak'  a  work  that  wouW 
long  and  widely  benefit  niankind.  Imi  we  have  .nnin.i. 


146 

of  travels  and  bagnios  of  Circes  and  of  Cyprians.  The 
mind,  after  a  while,  even  of  those  who  had  a  strong 
appetite  at  first,  turns  with  loathing  from  these  oifen- 
sive  details,  which  in  the  life  of  Byron  seem  to  occur 
as  constantly  as  the  seasons,  and  it  makes  no  difference 
whether  it  be  said  by  the  living,  or  written  by  his  de- 
parted subject.  Fiction,  however  monstrous,  is  better 
than  such  truths,  for  there  is  always  a  lurking  remem- 
brance in  the  mind  that  it  is  fiction,  and  poor  human 
nature  is  saved  from  the  effect  which  might  be  pro- 
duced if  it  had  been  treading  over  realities. 

Moore  has  genius  of  a  high  order,  and  it  is  devoted 
to  the  public.  Let  him  recollect  his  responsibihty  to 
that  public,  and  take  such  subjects  as  will  enlighten 
many,  amuse  all,  and  be  constantly  doing  good. 

■GO  WHERE  GLORY  WAITS  THEE. 

AIR — MAID  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee; 
But,  while  fame  elates  thee, 

Oh !  still  remember  me. 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest. 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
Other  arms  may  press  thee, 
Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee 

Sweeter  far  may  be  ; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest. 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 


147 

\Vhen,  at  cvc,  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
Think,  when  home  returning, 
Briglit  we've  seen  it  burning, 

Oil !  then  remember  me. 
Oft,  as  summer  closes, 
When  thine  eye  reposes 
On  its  ling'ring  roses, 

Once  so  loved  by  thee : 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them ; 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 

When,  around  thee,  dying, 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

01; !  then  remember  me. 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

Oh  !  still  remember  me. 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling. 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee ; 
Then  let  mem'ry  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee ; 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 

William  L.  Bowles  holds  a  respectable  rank  in  the 
republic  of  letters,  but  is  now  probably  more  known 
for  his  controversy  with  ranipl)rll  and  Byron  respect- 
ing the  merits  of  Pope,  than  for  any  other  production. 


148 

He  is  now  an  old  man  ai'id  probably  will  not  make  his 
appearance  again  as  a  poet  or  a  controversialist. 

TO  TIME. 

0  Time,  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay, 
Softest  on  sorrow's  wounds,  and  slowly  thence 
(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 

The  faint  pang  stealest  unperceived  away : 
,    On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hopes  at  last : 

And  think  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter  tear, 
That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul  held  dear, 

1  may  look  back  on  many  a  sorrow  past, 
And  greet  life's  peaceful  evening  with  a  smile. 

As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour, 
Sings  in  the  sunshine  of  the  transient  shower, 
Forgetful,  though  its  wings  be  wet  the  while. 
But  ah !  what  ills  must  that  poor  heart  endure, 
Who  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone  a  cure. 

The  Rev.  Henry  Milman  is  one  of  the  finest  poets  of 
England,  whether  you  consider  the  genius,  the  taste,  or 
the  purity  of  the  man.  He  has  been,  and  probably 
now  is  professor  of  poetry  at  Oxford.  In  his  college 
days  he  took  all  the  prizes  for  poetry,  or  more  of  them 
than  any  other  person  in  his  way.  He  has  written 
since  he  has  been  in  the  church  with  great  power  and 
elegance.  Milman  is  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  a 
sound  believer,  a  good  moralist,  a  splendid  prose  wri- 
ter, and  yields  to  no  one  in  his  wishes  to  do  good.  It 
is  to  be  hoped  that  his  productions  will  soon  become 
as  fashionable  as  those  of  Byron  and  Moore. 


149 


ODE,  TO  THE  SAVIOUR. 

For  thou  wert  born  of  woman !  thou  didst  come, 

Oh  Holiest!  to  this  world  of  sin  and  gloom, 

Not  in  thy  dread  onuiipotent  array, 

And  not  by  thunders  strew'd 

Was  thy  tempestuous  road  ; 

Nor  indignation  burnt  before  thee  on  thy  way. 

But  thee,  a  soft  and  naked  child, 

Thy  motlier  undefil'd 
In  the  rude  manger  laid  to  rest 
From  off  her  virgin  breast. 

The  heavens  were  not  commanded  to  prepare 
A  gorgeous  canopy  of  golden  air; 
Nor  stoop'd  their  lamps  the  enthroned  fires  on  high; 
A  single  silent  star 
Came  wandering  from  afar, 
Gliding  uncheck'd  and  calm  along  the  liquid  sky; 
The  Eastern  sagos  leading  on 

As  at  a  kingly  throne, 
To  lay  their  gold  and  odours  sweet 
Before  thy  infant  feet. 

TTie  earth  and  ocean  were  not  hush'd  to  hear 
Bright  harmony  from  every  starry  sphere ; 
Nor  at  thy  presence  brake  the  voice  of  song 
From  all  the  cherub  choirs. 
And  seraphs'  burning  lyres,  [along. 

Poor'd  thro'  the  host  of  heaven  the  charm'd  clouds 
One  angel-troop  the  strain  began, 
Of  all  the  race  of  man 


150 

By  simple  shepherds  heard  alone, 
That  soft  Hosanna's  tone. 

And  when  thou  didst  depart,  no  car  of  flame 
To  bear  thee  hence  in  lambent  radiance  came  j 
Nor  visible  angels  mourn'd  with  drooping  plumes: 
Nor  didst  thou  mount  on  high 
From  fatal  Calvary  [tombs, 

With  all  thy  own  redeem'd  out  bursting  from  their 
For  thou  didst  bear  away  from  earth 

But  one  of  human  birth, 
The  dying  felon  by  thy  side,  to  be 
In  Paradise  with  thee. 

Nor  o'er  thy  cross  the  clouds  of  vengeance  brakej 
A  little  while  the  conscious  earth  did  shake 
At  that  foul  deed  by  her  fierce  children  done; 
A  few  dim  hours  of  day 
The  world  in  darkness  lay ;  [sun 

Then  bask'd  in  bright  repose  beneath  the  cloudless 
While  thou  didst  sleep  within  the  tomb, 

Consenting  to  thy  doom  ; 
Ere  yet  the  white-rob'd  angel  shone 
Upon  the  sealed  stone. 

And  when  thou  didst  arise,  thou  didst  not  stand 
With  devastation  in  thy  red  right  hand, 
Plaguing  the  guilty  city's  murtherous  crew; 
But  thou  didst  haste  to  meet 
Thy  mother's  coming  feet, 
And  bear  the  words  of  peace  unto  the  faithful  few ; 
Then  calmly  slowly  didst  thou  rise 
Into  thy  native  skies, 


151 

Thy  liiiman  form  dissolved  ou  high 
In  its  own  radiancy. 

All  the  world  has  read  Byron,  and  it  has  not  yet 
gone  from  our  ears  that  the  great  poet  is  dead.  The 
recollections,  lives,  sketches,  and  anecdotes,  have  been 
profusely  poured  out  upon  the  world  until  all  have 
grown  weary  with  wading  through  them.  It  is  well 
to  know  enough  of  his  character  as  a  poet  to  find  the 
best  portions  of  his  works,  and  of  history  not  to  dwell 
on  it.  His  course  from  the  dawn  of  reason  was  way- 
ward. His  vices  commenced  early  and  lasted  as  long 
as  he  lived.  He  violated  duties,  scorned  all  human  ties, 
and  offended  every  religious  creed. 

He  wrote  many  things  with  great  effect.  He  saw 
and  felt  much,  but  after  all  was  selfish  in  his  feelings. 
He  was  sometimes  generous,  and  always  profuse;  but 
in  the  midst  of  labor,  pleasure,  or  profligacy,  his  own 
greatness,  and  his  wrongs,  real  or  imaginary,  were 
uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  When  the  excitement 
about  Lord  Byron  has  passed  away,  the  world  will  ad- 
mire his  talents,  and  will  select  many  parts  of  his 
works,  and  bind  them  up  together  for  posterity.  The 
Greeks,  will  erect  a  monument  to  his  memory  out  of 
the  remains  of  the  tombs  of  Pindar  and  Alcibiades; 
and  when  time  has  sunk  some  glaring  instances  of  his 
profligacy  into  dimness  and  shade,  the  mitred  guar- 
dians of  the  gates  of  Westminster  Abbey  may  permit 
a  .slab  to  be  sculptured  with  his  name.  Charity  will 
not  always  plead  in  vain  for  his  honor;  she  will  be 
heard  when  she  offers,  as  a  j)aliiation  for  many  of  his 
errors,  the  want  of  parental  example  and  domestic  in- 
struction. 


152 
STANZAS. 

"Hcu  quanta  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari  quam  tmmemlnissei'* 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  feir 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare, 

Too  soon  return'd  to  earth ! 
Though  earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low^ 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 

So  I  behold  them  not : , 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved  and  long  must  love^ 

Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 
'Tis  nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 

•   As  fervently  as  thou,     - 

Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  death  hath  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal. 

Nor  falsehood  disavow : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 


I 


153 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours; 

The  worst  can  but  be  mine : 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  stonn  that  lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
Tlie  silence  of  tluit  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep  ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away; 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey ; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away : 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  M'atch  it  witliering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  to-day ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade ; 
The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade : 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last ; 

Extinguish'd,  not  decay'd; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep 

My  tears  niiyht  well  be  shed, 

To  ihink  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  tliy  bed; 
H 


154 

To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head ; 
And  show  tl>at  love,  however  vain. 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain^ 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free. 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee ! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  mope  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 

The  name  ofShelley  excites  unpleasant  feelings.  He 
Was  a  being  to  be  pitied.  His  were  the  wanderings  of 
a  powerful  intellect  that  led  directly  down  to  the  gates 
of  death.  He  pushed,  while  yet  a  youth,  his  skepticism 
to  frenzy.  By  his  waywardness  he  had  notliing  to 
gain,  but  much  to  lose.  Preversity  and  infidelity 
drove  him  from  the  university,  and  at  last,  almost  from 
the  society  of  men ;  but  the  times  that  passed  over 
him  did  not  return  him  to  reason,  nor  did  he  acknow- 
ledge that  the  Most  High  reigneth  among  men.  Shel- 
ly wrote  under  a  torture  that  even  his  muse  could  not 
describe,  nor  find  any  match  for  it  among  earth-born 
beings.  Shelley  had  in,  prospect,  titles,  wealth,  and 
fime.  His  mind  was  of  a  gigantic  order.  He  reason- 
ed against  revelation  and  religion  with  the  strength  of 
tlie  prince  of  darkness.  His  poetry  partakes  of  the  ob- 
:?curity  of  his  reasonings,  but  there  is  in  it  a  most  won- 


lo5  . 

derful  power  of  thought  and  expression.  Sometimes 
this  obscurity  seems  to  heighten  the  sublimity  of  his 
poetry.  Curses  were  on  his  lips,  and  poverty  stung 
him  to  madness,  and  made  him  blaspheme  the  more. 
He  was  cjdled  to  his  great  account  at  thirty  years  of 
age.  He  w;is  drowned,  and  Ihron  erected  and  fired 
his  funeral  pile, and  watched  it  as  the  flames  ascended; 
but  in  admiring  the  classical  beauty  of  the  scene,  he  for- 
got to  shed  "  the  tear  io/riendship  due.'''' 

There  is  a  possibility  that  such  a  mind  as  Shelley's 
might  have  worked  itself  free  from  the  vile  stuff  about 
it,  if  he  had  been  spared  to  a  mature  age.  Shelley's 
principles  were  too  much  involved  in  metaphysics  to 
have  had  a  very  deleterious  effect  on  society.  The 
poison  lies  deep  in  his  works  when  there  is  any ;  it 
will  not  be  sucked  in  by  the  cursory  reader,  and  the 
M-isc  one  will  have  an  antidote  for  it  when  he  is  in 
danger.  There  is  a  charm  in  sound  principles  worth 
all  other  talismans. 

It  is  painful  to  see  youthful  virtue  cut  off  in  the  ear- 
ly summer  of  life,  but  the  pang  is  tenfold  when  mis- 
guided genius  is  called  to  depart  "  u7ianoi?ited^  nnan- 
nealedy  Shelley  rather  strove  to  vindicate  his  absur- 
dities than  to  propagate  his  principles.  His  example 
will  ^lot  be  infectious,  for  his  short  life  proved  that 
disobedience  and  transgression  are  sources  of  misery, 
and  tliat  he  who  defies  the  community  will  find  him- 
self hound  hand  and  foot  and  thrown  away  with  con- 
tempt. Life  to  him  is  without  enjoyment,  and  death 
comes  witluiut  hope;  he  departs  without  the  lamenta- 
tions of  the  good,  and  rests  without  the  praises  of  the 
eloquent.  If  those  bound  by  the  ties  of  consanguinity 
or  -'jlliance  shed  a  tear  upon  his  grave,  it  flows  not 


156 

from  the  fountain  of  pure  affection,  but  is  a  scalding 
drop,  wrung  from  painful  recollections  of  his  worse 
than  useless  course. 


DEDICATION  OF  THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


So  now  my  summer  task  is  ended,  Mary, 

And  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  heart's  home ; 

As  to  his  queen  some  victor  knight  of  faery, 

Earning  bright  spoils  for  her  enchanted  dome; 

Nor  thou  disdain,  that  ere  my  fame  become 

A  •star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night, 

If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom, 

Its  doubtful  promise  thus  I  would  unite 

With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  child  of  love  and  light. 

The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many  an  hour 

Is  ended. — And  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet ! 

No  longer  where  the  woods  to  frame  a  bower 

With  interlaced  branches  mix  and  meet. 

Or  where  Avith  sound  like  many  voices  sweet 

Water-falls  leap  among  vv^ild  islands  green 

Which  framed  for  my  lone  boat  a  lone  retreat 

Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I  be  seen : 

But  beside  thee,  where  still  my  heart  has  ever  been. 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  friend,  when 

first 
The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from  youth  did  pass. 
I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep:  a  fresh  Maydawn  it  was. 
When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass. 


157 

And  wept  I  knew  not  wliy ;  until  tlipie  rose 
From  the  near  school-room,  voices,  that  alas ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes, 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

And  then  I  clasped  my  hands  and  looked  around — 
But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  ej'es, 
^Miich  poured  the  warm  drops  on  the  sunny  ground — 
So  without  shame,  I  spake: — "  I  will  be  wise, 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power ;  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."    I  then  controlled 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was  meek  and 
bold. 

And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 

Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore; 

Yet  nothing  tha_t  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 

I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 

AN'rnught  linked  armour  for  my  soul,  before 

It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind  ;        [more 

Tlius  power  and   hope  were  strengthened  more  and 

Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 

A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which  I  pined, 

Alas,  that  love  sliould  be  a  blight  and  snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in  one ! — 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain ;  then  black  despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Over  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone : — 
Yet  m  vcr  found  I  one  not  false  to  me. 
Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights  of  icy  stone, 
14* 


158 

Which  crushed  and  withered  mine,  that  could  not  be 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog  until  revived  by  thee. 

Thou  friend,  whose  presence  on  my  wintry  heart 
Feu  like  bright  spring  upon  some  herbless  plain  j 
How  beautiful  and  calm  and  free  thou  wert 
In  thy  young  wisdom,  when  the  mortal  chain 
Of  custom  thou  didst  burst  and  rend  in  twain. 
And  walked  as  free  as  light  the  clouds  among, 
Whicli  many  an  envious  slave  then  breathed  in  vain 
From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit  sprimg 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had  begirt  it  long. 

No  more  alone  through  the  world's  wilderness, 

Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high  intent, 

I  journeyed  now :  no  more  companionless, 

Where  solitude  is  like  despair,  I  went. — ^ 

There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stern  content, 

When  poverty  can  blight  the  just  and  good, 

When  infamy  dares  mock  the  innocent. 

And  cherished  friends  turn  with  the  multitude 

To  trample :  this  was  ours,  and  we  unshaken  stood ! 

Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour, 

And  with  inconstant  fortune  friends  return ; 

Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge  and  the  power; 

Wliich  says : — let  scorn  be  not  repaid  with  scorn. 

And  from  thy  side  two  gentle  babes  are  born 

To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus  are  we 

Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming  morn  ; 

And  these  delights,  and  thou,  have  been  to  me^ 

The  parents  of  the  song  I  consecrate  to  thee. 


159 

Is  it  that  now  my  inexperienced  fingers 

But  strike  the  prelude  to  a  loftier  strain  ? 

Or  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit  hngers 

Soon  pause  in  silence  ne'er  to  sound  again, 

Though  it  might  shake  the  anarch  Custom's  reign, 

And  charm  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's  own  sway, 

Hoher  than  was  Amphion's  ?  it  would  fain 

Reply  in  hope— but  I  am  worn  away, 

And  death  and  love  are  yet  contending  for  their  prey. 

And  what  art  thou  ?  I  know,  but  dare  not  speak : 
Time  may  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet  in  the  paleness  of  thy  thoughtful  cheek, 
And  in  the  hght  thine  ample  forehead  wears, 
And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  thy  tears, 
And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whispered  to  subdue  my  fondest  fears : 
And  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy  soul  I  see 
A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

They  say  tliat  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy  birth. 
Of  glorious  parents,  tliou  aspiring  child. 
I  wonder  not — for  one  then  left  this  earth 
^Vllose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet  mild, 
"Which  clothed  thee  in  the  ra  liaiice  undefiled 
Of  its  departing  glory ;  still  her  fame 
Shines  on  tliee,  through  the  tempest  dark  and  wild 
Wliich  shake  these  latter  daj's^  and  thou  canst  claim 
The  shelter  from  thy  sire,  of  an  immortal  name. 

'  One  voice  came  forth  from  many  a  mighty  spirit, 
Which  was  the  eclio  of  tliree  thousand  years; 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute  to  hear  it, 


160 

As  some  lone  mau,  who  in  a  desert  hears 
The  music  of  his  home : — unwonted  fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race, 
And  faith  and  custom  and  low-thoughted  cares, 
Like  thunder-stricken  dragons,  for  a  space 
Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food  and  dwelling 
place. 

Truth's  deathless  voice  pauses  among  mankind ! 
If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my  cry — 
If  men  must  rise  and  stamp  with  fury  Wind 
On  his  pure  name  who  loves  them, — thou  and  I, 
Sweet  friend !  can  look  from  our  tranquillity 
Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous  night, —    _^ 
Two  tranquil  stars,  while  clouds  are  passing  by. 
Which  wrap  them  from  the  foundering  seaman's  sight, 
That  burn  from  year  to  year  with  unextinguished  light. 

When  the  elements  of  the  moral  and  political  world 
were  in  a  state  of  high  commotion,  a  work  entitled  the 
"  Pursuits  of  Literature"  was  published  anonymously. 
It  was  a  severe  and  an  indignant  satire  upon  the  wild 
and  unprincipled  writers  of  that  period.  Its  tone  was 
high  and  manly,  but  its  severity  was  directed  by  no 
party  spirit.  The  author  struck  down  the  sciolists  and 
charlatans  of  that  period  with  a  strong  hand.  He  nei- 
ther courted  nor  feared  those  in  power.  In  the  pride 
of  a  man  of  letters,  he  assumed  the  bold,  but  true  doc- 
trine, that  on  literature,  well  or  ill  conducted,  depends 
the  fate  of  a  nation.  He  spoke  of  literature  in  its 
broadest  sense.  He  brought  great  stores  of  learning 
to  his  aid.    He  had  drank  deeply  of  the  sweet  waters 


161 

of  the  Pierian  spring.  If  he  was  sometimes  guilty  of 
afTectation,  it  could  do  no  harm  to  anyone  but  himsi'lf. 
The  author  of  the  Pursuits  of  Literature  was  a  learned 
man,  if  his  pedantry  was  at  times  too  apparent.  If 
tliis  composition  was  not  equal  to  the  pretensions  of 
the  writer,  it  most  certainly  was  a  learned  production. 
The  notes  were  more  valued  than  the  verse.  This 
work  did  much  to  put  down  the  host  of  spurious  poli- 
ticians and  writers  of  affected  importance,  if  the  author 
did,  in  hasty  moments,  throw  his  arrows  somewhat  too 
promiscuously.  The  author  plumed  himself,  like  Ju- 
nius, on  concealment,  but  Wiis  not  like  him,  capable  of 
keeping  his  secret.  Tlie  author  was  found  to  be  Mr. 
Mathias— a  learned  man.  Canning,  in  his  poem  called 
"  iVeic  Morality,'^  speaks  of  the  author  of  the  Pursuits 
of  Literature,  then  unknown,  with  no  small  share  of 
praise: 

"  Thou  tool — the  nameless  hard, — whose  honest  zeal 
For  law,  for  morals,  for  the  public  w^eal, 
Pours  down  impetuous  on  thy  country's  foes 
The  stream  of  verse,  and  many  lauguagcd  prose  ; 
Thou  too  !— though  oft  thy  ill-advised  dislike 
The  guiltless  head  with  random  censure  strike, — 
Though  qflaint  allusions,  vague  and  undefined, 
Play  faintly  round  the  ear,  but  mark  the  mind:— 
Tlirough  tlie  mix'd  mass  yet  truth  and  learning  shine, 
And  m:uily  vigour  stamps  the  nervous  line: 
And  patriot  warmth  the  genr-rous  rage  inspires, 
And  wakes  and  pofnts  the  desultory  fires  !" 

From  Mathias  the  lake  poets  received  a  serious  cas- 
ti^alion.     Perhaps,  he  was  too  intent  upon  extirpalintj 


162 

the  pitiful  gnats  and  fire-flies  of  literature  that  were 
buzzing  and  stinging  about  him,  wliile  he  should  have 
been  dealing  his  ponderous  blows  upon  the  monsters 
and  dragons  of  mischief.  Though  full  of  classical  allu- 
sion, a,nd  heroic  examples,  he  forgot  that  of  Hercules. 
Had  this  hero  stopped  on  his  journeys  to  abate  every 
little  nuisance,  or  to  have  cruslied  every  tarantula  and 
viper  in  his  pathway,  the  Augean  stable  mi^ht  never 
have  been  cleansed,  nor  the  Nemean  lion  slain.  Great 
efforts  sliould  be  directed  to  great  ends. 

Fiction  is  now  the  rage  in  the  republic  of  letters. 
The  history  of  fiction  is  one  of  deep  philosophy  and 
curious  incident.  Fiction  has  always  been  natural  to 
man,  and  has  claimed  a  share  of  his  attention  in  every 
age  and  country.  The  popular  fictions  of  the  English 
came  from  the  north,  and  are  derived  from  the  Huns — 
who  obtained  them  from  the  east,  where  they  had  ex- 
isted almost  from  the  birth  of  man.  In  passing  through 
the  coarse,  warlike  Iluns,  they  lost  something  of  their 
Oriental  coloring,  but  nothing  of  their  strength  or  ex- 
aggeration ;  their  eastern  features  are  still  always  dis- 
cernible. It  is  not  difficult  to  trace  fiction  in  every  age 
or  nation;  it  has  been  the  extended  shadow  of  the 
mind  of  man  at  all  times,  which  kept  a  strong  resem- 
blance to  the  features  of  his  character.  The  Greeks 
did  not  cultivate  as  we  now  do.  The  golden  age  of 
fiction  was  among  the  Arabs  from  the  nintli  to  the  four- 
teenth century,  when  those  lovely  tales,  the  Arabian 
Nights,  were  invented,  or  collected  and  burnished  up 
by  the  devotees  to  Arabic  learning.  In  these  tales  su- 
perhuman agency  is  employed  to  more  than  human 
purposes.  If  genii  appear,  they  have  something  worthy 
of  their  poAvers  to  perform ;  they  are  mostly  inclined 


163 

to  virtue.  If  a  demon  is  called  to  act,  he  is  never  su- 
preme; some  talisman  can  control  him, — some  good 
spirit  is  his  master. 

The  early  ages  of  poetry  and  fiction  in  England,  have 
been  traced  with  care  by  ^^'arton,  in  his  history  of  Eng- 
lish poetry  ;  but  the  first  of  happy  fiction,  as  it  is  now 
understood,  was  the  Utopia,  by  Sir   Thomes   More, 
whose  writings  have  been  named  in  a  previous  chapter. 
A  work  of  fiction,  or  a  novel,  to  take  the  language  of 
the  times,  is  an  exliibition  of  action  or  passion,  and  in- 
cident, such  as  belongs  to  nature,  and  is  a  dark,  or 
brigl)t  or  beautiful  picture  of  human  life;  although 
there  ne^■er  existed  a  precise  prototj'pe  of  it,  still  all 
must  be  after  nature.     In  the  hands  of  a  master  such 
a  composition  may  be  made  attractive  and  useful.    It  is 
compounded  by  blending  such  matters  as  have  the  spirit 
of  public  or  private  history,  with  such  remarks  put  into 
tlie  moutlis  of  those  who  did,  or  did  not  exist ;  or  by 
giving  to  ideal  characters  the  air,  manner,  and  words 
of-real  ones.    In  modern  times,  also,  some  cliaracters,  as 
in  ancient  novels,  are  drawn  with  supcrhmuan  powers; 
suited  to  mortal   purposes.     Godwin  has  taken   this 
liberty  in  his  admirable  novel,  St.  Leon.     In  this  work 
the  fable  of  the  elixir  of  life,  that  gave  immortality  to 
all  who  drank   it,   and  the  philosopher's  stone,  that 
changed  all  metaln  into  gold  by  tlie  touch,  are  worked 
up  to  a  high  and  connnanding  purpose, — to  tlirow  co- 
lors upon  the  scenes  of  life,  to  diversify  them  at  wiU, 
and  to  lead  the  mind  through  the  wonderful  to  a  just 
sense  of  the  true.     In  his  Caleb  Williams,  and  other 
'  books  from  liis  pen,  lie  works  only  in  mortal  agencies, 
and  brings  about  ends  by  natural  means. 

Amo.ng  the  first  of  English  novelists  is  Mrs.  Radcliff. 


164 

Her  imagination  was  of  a  high  order.  She  brought 
into  her  works  a  spirit  of  Italian  history,  which  was  al- 
ways full  of  romance  and  taste.  There  was  a  current 
of  blood  running  through  it,  more  often  of  patrician 
than  plebeian  fountains.  Crime,  sentiment,  daring,  in- 
explicable conduct,  abounding  in  the  quietest  walks  ol 
life,  and  superabounding  in  the  upper  circles  of  society, 
made  Italy  one  fertile  field  of  novel  incident,  which 
the  "  great  magician  of  Udolpho"  improved  and  em- 
bellished. 

If  Ave  lay  aside  excitement,  passion,  and  the  wonder- 
ful, and  come  to  just  and  powerful  exhibitions  of  hu- 
man life,  Miss  Edgeworth  has  no  superior.  She  deals 
in  nothing  but  probable  events,  which  are  full  of  in- 
struction, and  are  well  calculated  to  teach  all  classes 
their  duties.  Her  great  good  sense  was  soon  discover- 
ed by  an  intelligent  community,  and  the  cant  and  fus- 
tian, and  mawkish  sensibility  which  was  deluging  the 
land,  at  once,  in  a  measure,  disappeared,  and  a  better 
taste  was  cultivated.  Her  Patronage  would  afford 
lessons  for  the  profound  statesman.  It  is  a  mirror  of 
nature.  It  flatters  no  one,  nor  gives  any  unnatural 
image.  Hosts  of  similar  productions  were  thrown  off 
for  the  public,  and  many  of  them  were  well  intended, 
and  some  of  them  well  written.  The  knight  errants 
in  the  fields  of  literature  were  numerous,  and  they 
coursed  here  and  there  without  superior  or  master, 
until  Walter  Scott  appeared.  At  first  he  was  the  great 
unknown.  At  the  onset  he  bore  away  the  palm  from 
all  his  rivals  with  ease,  and  then  becoming  a  little  jaded, 
he  seemed  to  gallop  over  the  course  as  one  careless  of 
the  victory  ;  but  when  some  cried  oi\t  that  he  was  ex- 
hausted, the  next  moment  he  was  seen  recruited,  dash- 


165 

ing  onwards  to  prove  his  pedigree,  speed,  and  bottom. 
For  a  long  tiin«  the  princely  knight  wore  his  visor 
do^vn,  and  fought  and  conquered  witli  perfect  conceal- 
ment. At  length  accident  revealed  him,  and  strange  to 
tell,  his  discovery  has  not  robbed  his  works  of  a  par- 
ticle of  their  Interest.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  a  tribe  of 
imitators,  and  some  of  them  tread  closely  upon  his 
heels,  while  others  are  at  a  sightless  distance  from  his 
course.  Some  of  these  authors  may  be  called  learned, 
and  may  be  said  to  use  good  language,  in  a  gentleman- 
ly manner,  particularly  Walter  Scott.  Their  vocabu- 
laries are  sometimes  rich  in  sound  philology,  and  bear 
marks  of  having  been  well  used. 

Many  are  improved  by  reading  the  works  of  such  a 
writer  as  Walter  Scott.  Every  reader  catches  more  or 
less  of  his  cast  of  thought,  and  learns  to  see  carefully, 
and  to  describe  with  accuracy.  It  would  be  wrong  to 
make  an  English  education  out  of  these  novels,  or  to  rely 
upon  them  for  historical  facts ;  but  if  they  should  be 
kept  out  of  the  school-room,  they  may  be  found  in  the 
library,  and  may  be  suffered  to  lie  on  the  work  table  and 
the  toilet.  There  is,  at  present,  a  cormorant  appetite  for 
these  works  of  fiction— even  our  own  wonderful  his- 
tory must  be  illustrated  by  tales  and  stories,  because  the 
true  narrative  might  be  dull.  This  is  an  evil.  Sir 
Walter  has  not  so  directly  guided  the  public  taste  as  we 
imagine  ;  he  rather  saw  the  direction  and  followed  it, 
and  found  his  fortune  and  liis  fame  in  the  course. 

If  Sir  Walter  had  given  about  half  the  number  of 
works  to  the  public  that  he  ha.s  in  the  same  period  of 
time  he  has  l)een  writing,  it  would  have  been  as  well  for 
his  fame,  and  hrtter  ff)rhis  readers;  for  his  works  have 
come  too  rapidly  for  the  reader  who  had  many  avoca- 
15 


166 

tions,  and  with  less  finish  than  they  would  have  ha<3 
with  more  pains.  But  when  the  critic  has  said  all  he 
ought  to  say,  and  the  reader  has  put  aside  the  novel, 
tired  and  determined  to  turn  from  him  for  ever,  for 
something  in  another  path,  let  a  month  elapse,  and  it  is 
taken  up  again  with  fresh  delight  and  perused  with  new 
devotion.  The  influence  of  genius  can  never  be  de- 
stroyed, it  lives  and  gathers  new  strength  in  every  age. 
The  gossamers  of  fashion  pass  away,  but  the  solid  gold 
of  talents  remains,  like  the  works  of  God,  to  increase  our 
admiration  as  our  knowledge  increases. 

There  is  a  great  mass  of  English  literature  now  ex- 
tant, which  contains  immense  stores  of  thought,  and 
which,  if  read  judiciously,  would  make  a  very  learned 
man.  It  is  every  day  increasing,  and  it  will  soon  re- 
quire large  books  of  indexes  and  references  for  one  to 
get  fairly  at  it ;  in  fact,  they  are  numerous  now.  Much 
time  is  often  wasted  for  want  of  proper  guides  in  our 
studies.  We  not  only  should  have  finger-posts  and 
mile-stones,  but  maps  and  directories  constantly  with 
us,  whenever  we  go  out  to  increase  our  knowledge,  or 
for  amusement.  English  literature  is  ours  by  birth- 
right, and  we  have  retained  it  uninjured  by  low  idioms, 
and  unprofaned  by  jargons,  which  have  so  often  been 
found  in  colonial  languages.  The  academic  bowers, 
the  lyceums,  and  the  universities  of  the  mother  coun- 
try have  all  poured  their  treasures  into  our  land  most 
readily. 

This- literature  of  England  must  be  forever  ours.  No 
non-intercGU?se&  or  wars,  can  long  keep  the  intellectual 
rays  of  that  nation  from  us.  This  settled,  we  must 
respect  our  own  literature  to  bring  out  the  genius  of 
the  American  people.    This  should  not  be  done  by  a 


167 

tariff  on  English  literature,  but  by  bounties  on  our  own. 
There  is  mind  enough  and  a  good  disposition  every 
wiiere  seen  among  us  for  the  high  pursuits  of  learning, 
but  our  authors  must  shine  only  as  scattered  and  dicker- 
ing lights  along  our  shores,  unless  these  fires  are  che- 
rished and  new  ones  kindled  up  by  the  breath  of  pub- 
lic patronage. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  SHALL  not  enter  into  a  discussion  of  the  advantages 
of  a  classical  education ;  I  shall  leave  that  question  to 
those  who  are  fond  of  controversy.  This  subject  has 
occupied  the  minds  of  distinguished  men  for  ages. 
For  nearly  four  centuries  classical  le^irning  held  the  first 
rank  in  the  pursuits  of  knowledge.  After  the  flood  of 
learning  had  burst  from  Constantinople,  Greek  and 
Latin  were  considered  the  highest  pursuits  of  man ; 
the  greatest  objects  of  the  human  mind,  humaniores 
Uteres,  were  translated — the  huiwanities.  Until  a  few 
years  since  no  one  dared  lisp  a  word  against  classical 
learning,  but  lately  opposers  to  the  study  of  tlie  dead 
languages  have  been  numerous  and  powerful;  and 
their  main  argument  has  been,  that  the  mind  might  h(t 
more  'profitably  employed  in  other  departments  of 
knowledge.  It  must  be  conceded  on  all  hands  tluit  the 
Creek  and  Roman  writers  contain  much  that  is  essen- 
tial to  be  known.  It  may  be  found  in  transliition,  it  is 
said,  ajid  m.ustered  nv.ivU  wioner  tlian  in  a  foreign  lan- 
guage. In  every  point  of  view  the  learning  of  the 
cla-isic  ages  must  he  had,  and  a  great  portion  of  it, 
€ven  to  the  professed  scholar,  comes  through  the  mo 


168 

dium  of  translations ;  but  few,  indeed,  have  spent  their 
days  in  reading  history,  biography,  and  geography,  in 
Herodotus,  Tacitus,  Plutarch,  and  Strabo,  in  the  origi- 
nal, who  could  find  a  good  translation  at  hand.  In  the 
early  ages,  all  branches  of  knowledge  were  commin- 
gled together.  History  was  poetry,  and  poetry  his- 
tory. And  these,  with  eloquence,  made  up  the  amount 
of  their  literature. 

To  understand  the  ancients,  we  must  begin  with  the 
birth  of  letters.  All  before  that  time  was  tradition  and 
fable,  and  if  written  since,  it  must  have  been  from  con- 
jecture or  from  amusement. 

^"  Be  famous  then 

By  wisdom ;  as  thy  empire  must  extend, 

So  let  extend  thy  mind  o'er  all  the  world 

In  knowledge,  all  things  in  it  comprehend: 

All  knowledge  is  not  couched  in  Moses'  law, 

The  Pentateuch,  or  what  the  prophets  wrote ; 

The  Gentiles  also  know,  and  write  and  teach 

To  admiration,  led  by  Nature's  light  5 

And  with  the  Gentiles  much  thou  must  converse, 

Ruling  them  by  persuasion,  as  thou  mean'st ; 

Without  their  learning  how  wilt  thou  with  them, 

Or  they  with  thee,  hold  conversation  meet  ? 

How  wilt  thou  reason  with  them,  how  refute 

Their  idolism,  traditions,  paradoxes  ? 

Error  by  his  own  arms  is  best  evinc'd. 

Look  once  more,  ere  we  leave  this  specular  mount. 

Westward,  much  nearer  by  south-west ;  behold 

Where  on  th'  ^gean  shore  a  city  stands 

Built  nobly,  pure  the  air,  and  light  the  soil, 

Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  mother  of  arts 


169 

And  eloquence,  to  famous  native  wits, 
Or  hospitable,  in  her  sweet  recess, 
City,  or  suburban,  studious  walks  and  shades  ; 
See  there  the  olive  grove  of  Academe, 
Plato's  retirement,  where  the  attic  bird 
Trills  her  thick-warbled  notes  the  summer  long; 
There  flowery  hill  Hymettus  with  the  sound 
Of  bees,  industrious  murmur  oft  invites 
The  studious  musing  ;  their  Ilissus  rolls 
His  whisp'ring  stream :  within  the  walls  then  view 
The  schools  of  ancient  sages ;  his  who  bred 
Great  Alexander  to  subdue  the  world  ; 
Lyceum  there,  and  painted  Stoa  next: 
There  shalt  thou  hear  and  learn  the  secret  power 
Of  harmony,  in  tones  and  numbers  hit 
By  voice  or  hand,  and  various-measur'd  verse, 
7'Eoliau  charms  and  Dorian  lyric  odes. 
And  his  who  gave  them  breath,  but  higher  sung, 
Blind  Melesigenes,  thence  Homer  call'd, 
Whose  poem  Phoebus  challenged  for  his  own. 
Thence  what  the  lofty  grave  tragedians  taught 
In  chorus  or  iambic,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  rcceiv'd 
In  brief  sententious  precepts,  while  they  treat 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  change  in  human  hfe ; 
Hi^i  actions,  and  high  passions  best  describing. 
Thence  to  the  famous  orators  repair, 
Those  ancient,  whose  resistless  eloquence 
Wielded  at  will  that  fierce  democratic. 
Shook  th'  arsenal,  and  fulmin'd  over  Greece, 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes  throne. 
To  sage  philosophy  next  lend  thine  car. 
From  heaven  descend  erl  to  the  low-roofd  liouse 
15* 


170 

Of  Socrates  ;  see  there  his  tenement, 
Whom,  well  inspir'd,  the  oracle  pronounc'd 
Wisest  of  men ;  from  whose  mouth  issued  forth 
Mellifluous  streams,  that  water'd  all  the  schools 
Of  Academics  old  and  new,  with  those 
Surnam'd  Peripatetics,  and  the  sect 
Epicurean,  and  the  Stoic  severe : 
These  here  revolve,  or,  as  thou  lik'st  at  home." 

"  Knowledge  is  hut  the  remembraiicer  of  things^  and 
history  is  the  record  of  things,  events,  circumstances^ 
opinions,  sentiments,  and  inferences.  To  impress  these 
things  on  the  memory  is  laying  the  foundation  of 
knowledge. 

History  is  considered  by  all  enlightened  men  as  a 
branch  of  polite  hterature,  and  one  of  great  importance. 
It  enables  us  to  triumph  over  time, — to  extend  the  term 
of  human  life,  by  storing  the  mind  with  the  spoils  of 
past  ages.  By  history,  man  lives  the  period  of  oriental 
adulation, — a  thousand  years.  For  want  of  history 
the  savages  are  children  forever,  with  a  high  capacity 
for  knowledge.  With  the  light  of  history  man  finds 
that  he  is  not  a  creature  of  the  day,  nor  born  alone  for 
the  present  hour,  but  that,  by  the  powers  of  reflection, . 
he  can  lay  hold  on  the  past,  and  conjure  it  all  up  at  his 
bidding.  He  ponders  over  the  inexhaustible  treasures 
contained  In  history,  and  by  comparing,  and  combining 
and  selecting,  he  may  find  information  to  guide  him 
in  forming  a  correct  judgment  in  all  cases.  By  this 
knowledge,  he  looks  forward  to  coming  time,  and  rea- 
soning on  what  has  been,  he  successfully  conjectures 
what  will  be ;  and  he  becomes,  of  course,  a  sagacious 
adviser  to  the  state.    All  things,  by  history,  pass,  as 


171 

It  vrere,  before  us,  and  we  judge  of  men  and  things 
wilhout  fear,  prejudice,  or  partiality. 

This  is  particularly  a  day  of  free  inquiry.  The 
ancient  dogmas  have  given  way,  and  new  lights  are 
brought  up  to  assist  us.  By  deep  researches,  great 
pains,  and  fortunate  discoveries,  more  information  is 
found  in  the  works  of  modern  historians  than  any  for- 
mer age  could  furnish. 

It  is  also  a  day  of  bold  criticism ;  men  no  longer 
read  history,  giving  implicit  belief  to  every  popular 
historian,  witliout  examination  and  reflection.  In  all 
human  knowledge  there  must  be  error.  Fancy  and 
fable  are  mingled  with  facts,  and  it  requires  discrimi- 
nation to  separate  them  even  in  this  age  of  light.  To 
know  the  waters  we  must  go  up  to  the  fountains.  To 
understand  the  weight  of  history  we  must  go  back  to 
the  dawn  of  knowledge,  Avhen  tradition  was  much  of 
history  ;  and  fablcj*,  that  were  produced  as  ornaments 
and  illustrations,  were  taken  for  sober  realities. 

In  this  early  day  of  originality,  there  was  but  little 
that  could  be  called  sound  learning.  Fancy  was  re- 
sorted to  for  want  of  fact,  and  the  genius  of  man  was 
taxed  to  the  highest  bent  for  an  ideal  creation.  Every 
thing  was  personified  ;  every  faculty  and  every  power 
was  represented  by  some  divinity.  The  understanding 
of  man  was  shadowed  forth  by  one  who  walked 

"  The  impalpable  and  pathless  sky," 

and  drove  tlie  chariot  of  the  sun.  In  his  train  follow- 
ed the  >a'SE3,  who  breathed  upon  their  votaries  the 
balmy  breath  of  inspiration,  and  taught  them  every 
thing  necessary  for  their  happiness.    These  muses  re- 


172 

presented  yoy  and  grief;  they  created  the  sprightly  song, 
and  invented  the  mazy  dance;  and  taught  mortals 
to  build  the  lofty  rhyme,  to  gaze  on  the  heavens  in  their 
starry  splendor,  and  to  learn  the  wanderings  of  the 
comet,  as  well  as  the  motions  of  the  regular  planets, 
as  they  performed  their  pathways  with  the  god  of  day. 
At  the  head  of  this  glorious  band  was  placed  the  muse 
of  history.  She  recorded  the  deeds  of  her  sisters,  and 
of  all  the  sons  of  men,  and  left  her  tablets  for  the  in- 
struction of  mankind ;  and  without  her,  all  the  inspira- 
tions lavished  around  them,  would  have  been  given  to 
ECHO,  or  suffered  to  die  away  among  the  mountains, 
and  in  the  vales  in  which  they  were  born. 

The  earliest  use  of  letters,  after  they  were  invented,, 
was  to  give  the  world  the  birth  of  the  gods,  and  those 
mighty  ones  descended  from  them  by  the  daughters  of 
men;  and  also  an  account  of  their  deeds.  If  these 
things  did  not  much  enlarge  the  mind,  they  gave  a 
softness  and  civilization  to  the  human  race,  which  it 
had  not  known  before.  The  imagination  was  restrain- 
ed by  no  law,  man  went  on  with  his  creations,  and  re- 
modeled them  at  will,  until  they  suited  his  taste  and  his 
habits.  Every  invention  of  the  imagination,  and  every 
work  of  his  hands  made  up  a  portion  of  early  history. 

Sculpture,  poetry,  architecture,  were  all  matters  of 
history,  as  history  was  then  understood,  for  it  was  not 
until  later  ages  that  history  was  separated  and  made 
a  distinct  branch  of  human  knowledge. 

Next  came  the  separate  descriptions  of  battles,  the 
rise  and  fall  of  empires,  the  deeds  of  statesmen,  and 
the  occurrences  of  domestic  life  ;  the  changes  of  go- 
vernments, th6  planting  of  colonies,  and  the  relations 
of  commerce  ;  the  character  and  effects  of  associa- 


173 

tioJis  and  combinatians,  and  all  ihe  doctrine  oi  treat ieSj 
offensive  and  defensive.  Then  history  separated  the 
ecclesiastical,  the  political,  and  military  affairs  from 
each  other,  and  eacli  was  treated  separately  as  well  as 
in  conjunction. 

Biography  came  to  the  aid  of  liistory,  when  great 
men  were  counecttd  with  the  affairs  of  nations.  Their 
conduct  was  discussed  as  individuals,  and  as  members 
of  the  body  politic.  All  lliese  things  were  then  stu- 
died to  strengthen  and  enlarge  tiie  mind  ; — and  the  arts 
of  war,  of  government,  the  pursuits  of  letters,  and  the 
study  of  the  sciences,  were  made  topics  for  the  schools. 
The  instructors  of  mankind  treated  upon  the  elements 
of  all  knowledge,  and  often  lavished  the  finest  powers 
of  the  understanding  upon  splendid  and  wild  theories, 
without  much  practical  utility  in  them ;  yet  even  error 
was  made  subservient  to  usefulness. 

Eloquence  was  cultivated  for  distinetton,  before  do- 
bating  was  brought  to  any  practical  use.  Some  of 
these  specimens  of  eloquence  have  come  down  to  us, 
and  delight  the  admirers  of  genius  and  refined  taste. 
We  love  to  linger  over  these  efforts  of  the  mind,  as 
they  show  how  much  a  passion  of  fame  will  produce, 
when  even  no  precise  ultimate  object  was  regarded. 
This  ta-ste  and  talent  softened  the  natural  ferocity  of 
man,  and  made  polished  and  splendid  minds  when 
there  was  but  little  of  true  philosophy  extant. 

Tlie  course  of  knowledge  was  progressive,  and  men 
discovered  tliat  it  was  necessary  to  know  something  of 
geography  a.s  well  as  of  history,  poetry,  architecture, 
sculpture,  elofpxence,  and  politics.  The  Ilab)l()iuans, 
the  Kgyptians,  and  the  Greeks,  very  early  crnisidered 
geography  as  a  science,  and  began  their  labors  in  it. 


174 

■which  have  been  transmitted  to  us  most  minutely. 
Sesostris  travelled  as  much  for  curiosity  and  a  desire 
of  knowledge  as  for  conquest,  and  traced  his  travels 
upon  a  rude  map.  On  this  effort  of  his  mind,  he  rest- 
ed his  fame  more  decidedly  than  on  his  conquests,  and 
took  more  delight  in  showing  it  to  his  people,  than  his 
captives  or  the  spoils  of  conquered  nations.  The 
Greeks  emulated  all,  and  surpassed  all  in  their  emula- 
tion. Anaximander  is  said  to  have  made  the  first 
Greek  map.  It  must  have  been  a  very  rude  outline  of 
the  countries  he  had  seen ;  but  the  Greeks  never  rest- 
ed satisfied  without  attaining  to  excellence;  and,  of 
course,  the  science  of  geography,  and  the  art  of 
making  maps  and  charts,  were  soon  ia  a  progressive 
state.  It  was  quickly  discovered  by  that  sagacious 
people  that  astronomy  and  geography  must  be  con- 
nected with  each  other ;  but  to  what  extent,  was  not 
then  ascertained.  Astronomy  had,  before  this  period, 
been  cultivated  by  the  Babylonians,  and  with  their 
knowledge  the  Greeks  had  become  acquainted.  One 
hundred  and  fifty  years  before  the  Christian  era,  Pto- 
lemy had  extended  the  science  of  geography,  and  the 
Romans  profited  by  his  labors.  The  convexity  of  the 
earth  was  at  that  time  known,  but  no  great  results 
were  seen  to  flow  from  the  discovery,  in  a  philosophi- 
cal point  of  view. 

There  were,  doubtless,  many  graphic  descriptions  of 
countries  in  their  traditions,  and  perhaps  in  poetry, 
before  any  lines  of  maps  or  charts  were  drawn,  and 
probably  before  the  Greeks  ,had  a  written  language. 
The  geography  of  Homer  is  thought  to  be  wonderfully 
correct.  He  had,  in  early  life,  seen  with  great  obser- 
v.ance  the  countries  he  described.    His  blindness  was 


175 

probably  at  a  late  period  of  his  life— certainly  after  he 
had  passed  the  middle  age  of  man.  Some  vague  geo- 
graphical descriptions  had  come  from  Egypt  with  the 
wisdom  of  that  people,  and  of  the  farthest  East,  from 
whence  they  drew  their  wisdom.  Thales,  a  historian, 
geographer,  and  philosopher,  who  had  added  to  the 
stock  of  geographical  knowledge  by  his  travels,  on  his 
return  from  Egypt  promulgated  liis  researches  to  his 
countrymen.  He  had  learned  something  of  geometry 
as  tvell  as  geography,  and  set  about  settling  the  philo- 
sophy of  the  equinoxes,  for  the  better  admeasurement 
of  time,  as  well  as  of  the  earth.  From  the  discoveries 
of  modern  travellers  in  Egypt, — Denon  and  others, — 
there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  the  sciences  of  astrono- 
my and  geometry  had  been  long  known  there  at  the 
period  when  Thales  visited  that  country.  Taste  in  let- 
ters, in  architecture,  and  science  in  war,  were  far  in  ad- 
vance of  other  sciences,  down  to  the  days  of  Archi- 
medes who  transcended  all  his  predecessors  in  mathe- 
matics and  natural  pliilosophy. 

Geography  was  not  more  necessary  to  history  thftn 
chronology.  These  two  have  been  emphatically  called 
the  eyes  of  history, — the  latter  being  as  important,  in 
many  a«pects,  as  the  former,  but,  in  fact,  more  difficult 
to  obtain.  Tlie  seasons  were  first  to  be  measured,  and 
accurately  too,  before  chronology  could  assume  such  a 
form  as  would  be  satisfactory  to  the  inquisitive  mind. 
Rude  nations  know  but  little  of  chronology.  The  most 
enlightened  savages  of  our  country  have  no  accurate 
means  of  the  crude  admfasuremcnt  of  time,  and  keep- 
ing a  record  of  the  measure.  Se-qua-yah,  who  invent- 
ed the  Cherokee  alphabet,  had  no  exact  account  of  his 
age ;  and  is  now  engaged  in  attempting  to  fix  some 
laws  satisfactory  to  himself  on  this  subject. 


176 

The  Greeks  had  several  epochs,  more  or  less  certain. 
First,  from  the  Argonautic  expedition  ;  next,  from  the 
siege  of  Troy  ;  then  from  the  Olympic  games.  This 
last  era  was  established  776  years  before  Christ,  about 
twenty-three  years  before  the  foundation  of  Rome,  ac- 
cording to  some  chronologists.  The  history  of  Greece 
is  said  to  have  commenced  more  than  seven  hundred 
years  before  the  Argonautic  expedition.  This  was 
truly  an  age  of  fable.  The  age  from  the  siege  of  Troy 
was  more  accurately  defined  by  the  early  historians, 
and  of  course  more  reliance  could  be  placed  on  itj  for 
from  this  period,  or  near  it,  we  begin  to  have  something 
like  contemporaneous  history. 

It  must,  I  think,  be  acknowledged  by  every  good 
philosophical  historian,  that  the  ancients  had  no  very 
metaphysical  ideas  of  time  or  space.  The  philosophy 
of  eternity,  of  mind,  of  space,  or  matter,  was  not  then 
so  well  understood  as  in  our  days,  degenerate  as  the 
antiquarian  would  call  us.  Even  the  Jupiter  of  the  an- 
cients had  not  half  as  great  a  space  to  act  in  as  Napoleon 
panted  for;  and  there  was  no  fixed  principle  of  his  in- 
destructible essence  m  their  philosophy.  He  may  have 
end  of  years  who  had  beginning  of  days  ;  and  the  whole 
doctrine  of  the  theogony  of  the  Greeks  goes  upon  the 
birth  of  deities.  To  have  lived  in  these  ages  of  great 
minds, — great  amidst  their  errors; — to  have  com- 
mingled familiarly  with  the  sons  of  gods  and  the  fair 
daughters  of  men,  and  their  giant  progeny;  would  have 
been  full  of  delight.  To  have  caught,  as  it  were,  the 
morning  incense  of  nature,  as  it  first  arose  from  the 
east ;  to  have  viewed  her  beauties  when  they  were  first 
tmveiled, — would  have  been  ecstasy;  and  to  have 
drank  in  the  first  inspirations  of  the  muse,  most  glori- 


177 

ous.  But  who  would  not  rather  live  among  the  lesser 
men  of  the  present  day,  with  a  God  without  beginning 
of  days  or  end  of  years ;  omnipotent,  omnipresent,  all 
merciful,— the  father  of  all,  the  friend  of  all ;  and  to 
whom  all  may  return,— than  to  have  hved  among 
demi-gods,  with 

"  Deities,  partial,  changeful,  and  unjust, 
WTiose  attributes  were  rage,  revenge,  and  lust  ?" 

But  do  not  understand  me  as  decrying  the  history  of 
those  ages,  for  it  is  impossible  to  be  respectably  learn- 
ed without  attending  to  the  ancients,  and  drinking 
deeply  of  their  knowledge.  It  is  one  of  the  duties  of 
those  who  live  in  any  age,  to  draw  lessons  of  wisdom 
from  all  that  has  passed,  and  we  shall  therefore  cast  a 
glance  at  their  historians,  poets,  and  orators,  without 
any  squeamish  fear, — a  fear  now  prevalent, — of  imbib- 
ing any  doctrines  that  may  weaken  our  faith,  or  dis- 
tract our  understandings. 

Homer,  who  was  born,  or  rather  wrote,  about  eight 
hundred  and  eighty  years  before  Christ,  according  to 
the  best  authority,  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  histo- 
rians, as  well  as  poets,  that  has  come  down  to  us  from 
antiquity.  Poetry  was  then  not  only  the  ornament  of 
sentiment,  and  the  beauty  of  fiction,  but  was  also  all 
that  was  mental.  In  fact,  it  embraced  all  the  know- 
ledge of  mankind ;  it  taught  tliem  what  they  believed 
to  l>e  their  hi.story  ;  celebrated  their  mythology;  filled 
them  with  romantic  and  heroic  conceptions  ;  and  gave 
additional  pleasure  to  the  heart  by  the  charm  it  afford- 
ed the  ear.  If  nmch  relating  to  this  great  poet,  his- 
torian, and  philo.syphcr,  is  unolved  in  doubt  and  obscu- 
16 


178 

rity,  still  there  is  enough  that  is  certain  to  satisfy  us  on 
tlie  subject  of  the  state  of  society  in  the  age  in  which 
he  lived. 

This  work  itself  has  a  singular  history.  It  was  first 
edited,  and  probably  first  written  out,  as  a  splendid  le- 
gendary history,  by  the  great  lawgiver,  Lycurgus,  two 
hundred  years  after  Horner's  death;  and  more  than 
three  hundred  years  afterwards  revised  by  Pisistratus, 
the  first  of  all  the  Greeks  who  collected  volumes  for  a 
public  library.  It  is  said,  also,  that  Solon  revised  and 
corrected  the  text  of  Homer;  and  there  can  he  no  doubt 
but  that  Alexander  the  Great  engaged  his  tutor,  Aristo- 
tle, to  give  a  finishing  hand  in  correcting  the  composi- 
tions of  the  immortal  bard.  The  account  of  the  birth 
and  life  of  Homer,  said  by  some  to  be  from  Herodo- 
tus, is  probably  the  best  that  can  be  found. 

"  A  man  of  Magnesia,  whose  name  was  Menalippus, 
Went  to  settle  at  Cumas,  where  he  married  the  daughter 
of  a  citizen  called  Homyres,  and  had  by  her  a  daugh- 
ter called  Critheis.  Tlie  father  and  mother  dying,  Cri- 
theis  was  left  under  the  tuition  of  Cleonax,  her  father's 
friend;  and  suffering  herself  to  be  deluded,  became 
pregnant.  The  guardian,  though  Iiis  care  had  not  pre- 
vented the  misfortune,  was,  however,  willing  to  conceal 
it,  and  therefore  sent  Critheis  to  Smyrna.  Critheis 
feeing  near  her  time,  went  one  day  to  a  festival,  which 
the  town  of  Smyrna  was  celebrating  on  the  banks  of 
■ftie  river  Meles,  where  she  was  delivered  of  Homer, 
Whom  she  called  Melesigenc?,  because  he  was  born  on 
the  banks  of  that  river.  Having  nothing  to  maintnin 
her,  she  was  forced  to  spin ;  and  a  man  of  Smyrna 
called  Phemiiis,  who  taught  literature  and  music,  hav- 
ing seen  Critheis,,  who  lodged  near  him,  and  being 


179 

pleased  with  her  housewifery,  took  her  into  his  house  to 
spin  the  wool  he  rt'cei\e(l  Iroin  liis  scholars  for  scliool- 
iug.  Here  she  behaved  lierself  so  modestly  and  dis- 
creetly, that  Pheniius  married  her,  and  adopted  her 
son,  in  whom  he  discovered  a  wonderful  genius,  and 
an  excellent  natural  disposition.  After  tiie  dcatii  of 
Phemius  and  Critheis,  Homer  succeeded  to  liis  fatli-^r- 
in-law's  fortune  and  school,  and  was  admired,  not  only 
by  the  inliabitants  of  Smyrna,  but  by  strangers  who 
resorted  from  ;dl  parts  to  tliat  place  of  trade.  A  ship- 
master called  -Mentes,  who  was  a  man  of  wit,  very 
learned,  and  a  lover  of  poetry,  was  so  pleased  with  Ho- 
mer that  he  persuaded  him  to  leave  his  school,  and  to 
travel  with  him.  Homer,  whose  mind  was  then  em- 
ployed upon  his  '  Iliad,'  and  who  thought  it  of  great 
consequence  to  see  the  places  of  whicli  lie  should  have 
occasion  to  treat,  embraced  the  opportunity, and  during 
their  several  voyages,  never  failed  carefully  to  note 
down  what  he  thought  worth  observing.  He  travelled 
into  Egypt,  whence  he  brought  into  Greece  the  names 
of  their  gods,  and  the  chief  ceremonies  of  their  wor- 
ship. He  visited  Africa  and  Spain,  in  return  from 
which  places  he  touched  at  Ithaca,  and  was  there  much 
troubled  witli,arheum  falling  upon  his  eyes.  Mentes 
being  in  haste  to  visit  Leucadia,  his  native  country,  left 
Homcf  well  recommended  to  Mentor,  one  of  the  chief 
men  of  the  island  of  Itluu'a,  and  there  he  was  informed 
of  many  things  relating  to  Ulysses,  which  he  after- 
wards made  use  of  in  composing  his  '  Odyssey.'  Men- 
tes returning  to  Ithaca,  found  Homer  cured.  They 
embarked  together,  and  after  mucli  time  sjient  in  visit- 
ing the  coast  «f  Peloponnesus  anri  tlio  islands,  tliey  ar- 
rived at  Colophon,  where  Homer  was  again  troubled 


180 

with  the  defluction  upon  his  eyes,  which  proved  so  vio- 
lent, that  he  is  said  to  have  lost  his  sight*  This  mis- 
fortune made  him  resolve  to  return  to  Smyrna,  where 
he  finished  his  '  Iliad.'  Some  time  after,  the  bad  state 
of  his  affairs  obliged  him  to  go  to  Cumae,  where  he 
hoped  to  have  found  some  relief.  Stopping  by  the  way 
at  a  place  called  the  New  Wall,  which  was  the  residence 
of  a  colony  from  Cumae,  he  lodged  in  the  house  of  an 
armourer  called  Tichius,  and  recited  some  hymns  he 
had  made  in  honor  of  the  gods^  and  his  poem  of  Am- 
phiraus's  expedition  against  Thebes.  After  staying 
here  some  time,  and  being  greatly  admired,  he  went  to 
Cumse  ;  and  passing  through  Larissa,  he  wrote  the  epi- 
taph of  Midas,  king  of  Phrygia,  then  newly  dead.  At 
Cumae  he  was  received  with  extraordinary  joy,  and 
his  poems  highly  applauded;  but  when  he  proposed  to 
immortalize  their  town,  if  they  would  allow  him  a  salary, 
he  was  answered,  that '  there  would  be  no  end  of  main- 
taining all  the  'O/xTipoi,  or  blind  men,'  and  hence  got  the 
name  of  Homer.  From  Cumae  he  went  to  Phoceea, 
where  he  recited  his  verses  in  public  assemblies.  Here 
one  Thestorides,  a  school  master,  offered  to  maintain 
him,  if  he  would  suffer  him  to  transcribe  his  verses: 
which  Homer  complying  with  through  mere  necessitj'", 
the  schoolmaster  pnvily  withdrew  to  Chios,  and  there 
grew  rich  with  Homer's  poems,  while  Homer  at  Pho- 
caea  hardly  earned  his  bread  by  repeating  them. 

"  Obtaining,  however,  at  last,  some  intimation  of  the 
schoolmaster  he  resolved  to  find  him  out ;  and  landing 
near  Chios,  he  was  received  by  one  Glaucus,a  shepherd, 

•  The  blindness  of  Homer  has  been  contested  by  several  authors,  and  par- 
ticularly by  a  scholar  named  Andreas  'Willdns,  in  a  book  bearing  the  quaint 
title  of  "  Curatio  oeci  HomerL"  If  he  was  blind  at  all,  it  was  probably  ODly 
in  extreme  old  age. 


181 

by  whom  he  was  carried  to  his  master  at  Bolissus,  who, 
admiring  his  knowledge,  entrusltd  him  willi  the  educa- 
tion of  his  children.  Here  his  praise  began  to  get 
abroad,  and  the  schoohnaster  hearing  of  him,  fled  be- 
fore him.  At  Chios,  Homer  set  up  a  school  of  poetry, 
gained  a  competent  fortune,  married  a  wife,  and  had 
two  daughters  ;  one  of  whidi  died  young,  and  the 
other  was  married  to  his  patron  at  Bolissus.  Here  he 
composed  liis  'Odyssey,'  and  inserted  the  names  of 
those  to  whom  lie  had  been  most  obliged,  as  Mentes, 
Phemius,  Mentor  ;  and  resolving  to  visit  Athens,  he 
made  honorable  mention  of  that  city,  to  dispose  the 
Athenians  for  a  kind  reception  of  him.  But  as  he  went, 
the  ship  put  into  Samos,  where  he  continued  the  whole 
winter,  singing  at  the  houses  of  great  men,  with  a  train 
of  boys  after  him.  In  the  spring  he  went  on  board 
again,  in  order  to  prosecute  his  journey  to  Athens ; 
but  landing  by  the  way  at  Chios,  he  fell  sick,  died,  and 
was  buried  on  the  sea  shore." 

In  every  period,  critics  of  the  first  order  of  minds 
have  written  upon  Homers  works  ;  and  from  the  blaze 
of  his  genius  have  been  kindled  up  half  the  liglits  of 
intervening  ages.  There  is  such  a  simplicity  in  his 
\\Titings  that  the  youthful  mind  can  at  once  compre- 
hend them  ;  such  beauty  of  description,  that  n(»  one 
who  has  read  can  forget  the  circumstances,  incidents, 
and  images,  so  distinctly  exhibited  by  the  power  and 
the  art  of  the  author.  He  seizes  the  mind  so  strongly, 
that  every  child  sympathizes  with  every  distinguished 
clmrarter  in  the  work,  and  feels  as  mueli  interested  for 
earh  person  in  the  whole  drama,  a.-<  for  those  (tf  his 
o\\T\  connections  and  kindred.  Who  has  not  shed  a 
tear  at  Hector's  fate,  or  pitied  old  father  Priam  begging 
16* 


182 

the  corse  of  his  son  ?  Almost  evety  one  who  early 
read  the  works  of  Homer,  will,  if  he  recollects  himself, 
trace  to  this  author  the  first  ideas  he  had  of  sailing 
ships,  scouring  the  seas,  and  of  naval  architecture. 
Also,  the  first  impressions  of  a  city,'  if  he  was  born  in 
the  country.  And  the  seven  walls  of  Troy  were  drawn 
for  his  inspection,  on  the  Slate,  or  board,  or  wall,  to 
show  him  how  wonderfully  the  city  was  built.  The 
petty  nations  of  Greece  all  appeared  in  such  bold  relief 
as  they  assaulted  the  renowned  city  ;  and  their  modes 
of  warfare  were  so  simple,  grand,  personal,  and  impos- 
ing, that  the  mighty  masses  of  modern  battles,  with 
their  scientific  movements,  and  slaughtered  thousands, 
all  sink  into  insignificance  in  the  youthful  mind,  com- 
pared with  the  combats  of  these  brave  men.  How  full 
of  sentiment  is  every  part  of  the  Iliad !— heroic,  tender, 
parental,  filial.  Homer  knew  the  master-springs  of  the 
human  heart,  and  touched  them  as  easily  as  Mozart  did 
the  keys  of  his  piano.  He  passed  from  the  guilty  bed 
of  Paris  and  Helen  to  the  chaste  loves  of  Hector  and 
Andromache  without  violence  to  feeling,  and  in  full 
accordance  to  our  best  impressions  of  virtuous  senti- 
ments. He  gives,  with  ease,  a  full  revelation  of  the 
liuman  mind,  from  the  sublimest  tumults  of  the  soul  to 
the  softest  touches  of  human  feeling ;  from  the  highest 
of  all  human  resolves  to  the  minutest  courtesy  of  man- 
ners, in  every  grade  of  society.  All  that  is  deep  in 
hatred  ;  all  that  is  settled  in  malignity  and  revenge ;  all 
that  is  fiendish  in  atheism ;  all  that  is  foolish  in  the  con- 
temners of  the  gods;  as  well  as  all  that  is  sublime  in 
devotion,  and  sweet  in  piety,  was  known  to  this  great 
painter  of  nature  and  of  intellectual  man. 
The  Odyssey  is,  perhaps,  more  minute  in  the  descrip- 


183 

tion  of  manners  and  customs  of  countries  than  the 
Iliad,  and  is  not  wanting  in  sentiment.  The  Iliad  is 
unquestionably  the  model  of  all  epics,  since  written. 
Tlie  fact  is  avowed  bj-  ;ill  who  have  dared  to  attempt 
one.  The  Odyssey,  the  great  moralist,  Dr.  Johnson, — 
who  never  praised  the  dead  or  the  living,  but  from  the 
sternest  convictions  of  his  understanding, — has  avowed, 
is  the  foundation  of  all  the  tribe  of  modern  novels. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  there  are  but  a  few  who,  if 
they  can  read  the  original  with  pains  and  care,  do  not 
consult  the  translations  of  Homer  for  ease,  convenience, 
and  pleasure.  Some  Latin  translations  are  verbally  ac- 
curate, and  may  be  consulted  for  the  sense  of  the  au- 
thor. Cowpcr's  translation  should  be  read  as  giving 
the  strict,  simple  meaning  of  the  original,  and  some- 
times he  is  felicitous  in  expressing  it.  This  translation 
should  be  read  to  see  what  Homer  meant,  but  there  is 
more  attraction  in  that  of  Pope.  Cowper  appears  in 
pilgrim  simplicity ;  Pope  in  my  Lord  Chesterfield's 
court  dress.  Cowper  is  the  most  honest ;  Pope  the 
most  splendid.  The  one  is  literal,  the  other  free  and 
paraphrastic.  The  sweetness  and  purity  of  an  honest 
nature  is  in  the  first ;  the  dazzling  light  of  genius  in 
the  second.  Both  may  be  studied  with  pleasure  and 
profit. 

The*  translations  which  I  shall  give  of  the  Greek 
poets  are  from  the  works  of  Charles  Abraham  Elton  ; 
they  form  a  happy  medium  between  Pope  and  Cowper. 


184 
» 

WATCH  OF  THE  TROJANS 

BEFORE  THE  WALLS  OF  TROY. 

The  glittering  splendor  of  the  sun  now  fell 
Beneath  the  ocean,  and  earth's  foodful  plains 
"Were  veil'd  with  blackest  night.    Unwelcome  sank 
The  day  to  Trojan  eyes;  but,  thrice  implored, 
Night's  gloomy  darkness  came  upon  the  Greeks. 

Illustrious  Hector  with  the  Trojan  bands 
Held  council.    From  the  ships  he  led  them  back 
Near  the  deep-eddying  river,  where  a  spot 
Seem'd  clear  from  scatter'd  dead.     Down  from  their 

steeds 
They  leap'd  to  earth,  and  listen'd  while  he  spake: 
His  spear,  eleven  long  cubits,  by  the  shaft 
He  grasp'd ;  the  brazen  spear-head  gleam'd  before, 
Set  in  its  ring  of  gold.     On  this  he  lean'd. 
And  hasty  spoke:  "  Hear,  Trojans  and  allies! 
But  now  I  thought  that,  both  the  ships  and  Greeks 
Destroying  utterly,  we  should  return 
To  Ilium's  wind-swept  walls.     The  shades  of  night 
Have  overtaken  us,  and  so  preserved 
These  Grecians,  and  the  ships  upon  the  shore; 
Then  yield  we  to  the  night,  and  make  repast. 
Loose  the  maned  coursers  from  the  cars,  and  set 
Their  provender  ;  and  from  the  city  bring 
Oxen  and  sheep,  in  haste,  and  luscious  wines, 
And  loaves  from  all  your  dwellings.     Gather  round 
Piles  of  dry  wood,  and  let  us  kindle  fires 
To  burn  innumerable  through  the  night 
Till  morning  dawn,  so  that  the  splendor  gild 
The  sky ;  lest  haply  under  veil  of  night 


185 

Tlie  long-hair"d  Greeks  betake  them  fugitive 

O'er  the  wide  ourface  of  the  main:  nor  thus 

They  cHmb  their  ships  dehberate  and  in  peace; 

But  that  some  one  among  them  have  to  tend 

A  wound,  though  safe  at  iiome;  and,  while  he  leaps 

On  ship-board,  smitten  feels  the  sudden  edge 

Of  arrow  or  sharp  spear ;  and  others  dread 

To  bring  the  tearful  miseries  of  war 

On  Trojans,  breakers  of  the  fiery  steed. 

Let  heaven-protected  lu  raids  straight  proclaim 

Throughout  the  cky,  that  the  stripling  youths 

And  hoary-headed  men  keep  nightly  watch 

Within  the  towers  of  strength  that  fence  the  towTi; 

And  the  soft  women,  each  within  her  lionse. 

Kindle  large  fires;  and  a  firm  guard  be  set, 

I-est  stratagem  in  absence  of  our  troops 

Surprise  the  .city,      Trojans!  great  of  heart  1 

Be  it  as  I  have  said  ;  our  speech  be  now 

Of  present  safeguard :  words  of  other  sort,  • 

Warriors  of  Troy !  shall  greet  you  with  the  dawn. 

For,  high  in  trusting  hope,  I  pray  of  Jove 

And  all  the  other  gods,  that  I  may  drive 

These  dogs  accurs'd  of  Greece,  whom  angry  Fates 

In  their  black  ships  have  cast  upon  our  shores, 

Far  hence.     But  lot  us  through  the  night  keep  watch 

And  secure  giiard.     At  morn,  w  hen  day  first  breaks, 

Let  us'to  arms,  and  at  the  hollow  ships 

Stir  the  keen  conflict.     It  will  then  be  seen 

If  Diomed  the  brave  back  from  the  ships 

Shall  drive  me  to  the  walls,  or  I  destroy 

His  bo<iy  with  the  sword  and  bear  away 

His  bloody  armour.     lie  shall  prove  his  might 

To-morrow,  whether  he  can  firm  sustain 


186 

My  lance  when  borne  against  him.    But  I  deem 
He  shall  fall  wounded  with  the  first  that  fall, 
Stretch'd  at  his  length,  soon  as  to-morrow's  sun 
Be  risen.    And  oh !  that  I  might  deathless  be, 
Exempt  from  age,  and  worshipp'd  as  the  names 
Of  Phoebus  and  Pallas  are  adored. 
So  surely  as  to-morrow's  dawn  shall  bring 
Evil  to  Greeks  !"    Thus  Hector  spoke  :  and  loud 
The  Trojans  shouted  in  acclaim.     Then  swift 
They  loosed  the  sweating  coursers  from  the  yoke, 
And  by  their  headstalls  bound  them  near  the  cars. 
Fat  sheep  and  oxen  from  the  town, they  brought 
In  haste,  and  luscious  wines  convey'd,  and  loaves 
Fruai  all  the-ir  dwellings  ;  and  with  gathered  wood 
Raised  many  a  pile.     The  steamy  smoke  uprose 
Frnrn  all  the  plain,  blown  by  the  wafting  winds 
-Into  the  sky.     They,  musing  niiglity  deeds, 
With  ranks  unbroken  as  in  combat,  sate 
Through  the  long  night,  while  many  a  fire  blazed  round. 
As  beautiful  the  stars  shine  out  in  heaven 
Around  the  splendid  moon,  no  breath  of  wind 
Ruffling  the  blue  calm  ether ;  clear'd  from  mist 
The  beacon  hill-tops,  crags,  and  forest  dells 
Emerge  in  light ;  th'  immeasurable  sky 
Breaks  from  above,  and  opens  on  the  gaze ; 
The  multitude  of  stars  are  seen  at  once 
Full  sparkling,  and  the  shepherd  looking  up 
Feels  gladden'd  at  his  heart ;  so  many  fires, 
Midway  the  ships  and  Xanthus'  glimmering  stream, 
Blazed  up  in  front  of  Troy.     A  thousand  flames 
Burn'd  on  the  plain  ;  around  each  sep'rate  pile 
Sate  fifty  men,  on  whom  the  reddening  glare 
:Beflected  shone.    Meanwhile  the  steeds  all  stood 


187 

Fast  by  their  chariots,  champing  the  white  grain  j 
And  tarried  till  the  bright-throued  morn  appear. 


From  the  Hymns. 

PART  OF  THE  HYMN  TO  APOLLO. 

Nine  days  and  nights  Latona  proved  the  pains 

Of  hopeless  lalxjiir  ;  but  within  the  isle 

The  best  of  Goddesses  stood  near  with  aid. 

Rhea,  Dione,  Themis  searcliing  truth, 

And  Amphitrite  of  the  nuirmuring  sea, 

And  all  the  fair  Immortajy.  her  except 

Of  snow-white  arms ;  for  Juno  sate  apart 

Within  the  palace  of  Cloud-gatherer  Jov€. 

Alone  Lncina,  speeder  of  the  throes, 

Knew  not  the  coming  birth.    She  also  sate 

Upon  Olympus'  summit  underneath 

Tlie  golden  clouds,  by  Juno's  wile,  who  there 

Detain'd  her  ;  envious  that  the  fair  of  locks, 

Latona,  should  bring  forth  a  noble  son 

And  valiant.     Then  from  the  well-planted  isle 

Those  (Joddesses  sent  Iris  to  conduct 

Lucina  thither  ;  promising,  as  gift, 

A  weigiity  necklace  strung  with  threads  of  gold, 

Nine  cubits  length.     They  bade  her  stealthily 

Call  forth  Lucina;  lest  the  white-arm'd  Queen 

Should  after  turn  her  by  insidious  words, 

And  so  avert  her  coming.     Iris  Inward, 

And  fleet,  wind-footed,  pass'd  with  running  speed 

Away,  and  swiftly  cross'd  the  middle  space. 

When  to  the  dwelling  of  the  Gods  she  came, 


188 

The  steep  Olympus,  quickly  to  the  gate 
She  called  Lucina ;  and  with  winged  speech 
Told  all  th'  Olympian  Goddesses  had  said, 
And  moved  the  heart  within  her  by  the  words 
Of  soft  persuasion.    So  they  came  like  doves, 
With  featful  fluttering  steps  ;  and  as  the  feet 
Of  the  birth-speeding  Goddess  toueh'd  the  isle, 
The  labor  seiz'd  Latona,  and  her  hour 
Was  come.    Around  a  palm-tree's  stem  she  threw 
Her  Unked  arms,  and  pressed  her  bowed  knees 
On  the  soft  meadow :  Earth  beneath  her  smiled, 
And  Phoebus  leap'd  to  light.    The  Goddesses 
Scream'd  in  their  joy.    There,  oh  thou  archer  God ! 
Those  Goddesses  imbathed  thee  in  fair  streams 
With  chaste  and  pure  immersion,  swathing  thee 
With  new-wove  mantle,  white,  of  delicate  folds, 
Clasp'd  with  a  golden  belt.    His  mother's  milk 
Fed  not  Apollo  of  the  golden  sword ; 
But  Themis  with  immortal  hands  infused 
Nectar  and  bland  ambrosia.    Then  rejoiced 
Latona  that  her  boy  had  sprung  to  light. 
Valiant,  and  bearer  of  the  bow  ;  but  when, 
Oh  Phoebus  !  thou  hadst  tasted  with  thy  lips 
Ambrosial  food,  the  golden  swathes  no  more 
Withheld  thee  panting,  nor  could  bands  restrain, 
But  every  ligament  was  snapt  in  scorn. 
Straight  did  Apollo  stand  in  Heaven,  and  face 
Th'  Immortals  :  "  Give  me,"  cried  the  boy,  "  a  harp 
And  bending  bow ;  and  let  me  prophesy 
To  mortal  man  th'  unerring  will  of  Jove." 
Far-darting  Phoebus  of  the  flowing  hair 
Down  from  the  broad-track'd  mountain  pass'd,  and  all 
Those  Goddesses  look'd  on  in  ravish'd  awe  : 


189 

And  all  the  Delian  isle  was  heap'd  with  gold, 
So  gladdeird  by  his  presence,  the  fair  son 
Of  Jove  and  of  Latona.    For  he  chose 
That  island  as  his  home  o'er  every  isle 
Or  continent,  and  loved  it  in  his  sonl. 
It  flouris'h'd  like  a  mountain,  when  its  top 
Is  hid  with  flowering  blossoms  of  a  wood. 
God  of  the  silver  bow,  far-darting  King ! 
Thou  too  hast  trod  the  craggy  Cynthas'  heights, 
And  sometimes  wander'd  to  the  distant  isles 
And  various  haunts  of  men ;  and  many  fanes 
Are  thine,  and  groves  thick  set  witii  gloomy  trees: 
Thine  all  the  caverns,  and  the  topmost  clifl!s 
Of  lofty  mountains,  and  sea-rolling  streams. 
But  still,  oh  Phoebus  !  in  the  Delian  isle 
Tliy  heart  delighteth  most.     Th'  lonians  there 
In  trailing  robes  before  thy  temple  throng, 
With  their  young  children  and  their  modest  wives; 
And  mindful  of  thy  honor  charm  thee  then 
With  cestus  combats,  and  with  bounding  dance, 
And  song,  in  stated  contest.     At  the  sight 
Of  that  Ionian  crowd  a  man  would  say 
That  all  were  blooming  with  immortal  youth; 
So  looking  on  the  gallant  mien  of  all, 
And  ravishing  his  mind  while  he  beheld 
The  fair-fornrd  men,  the  women  with  broad  zone 
Gracefully  girt,  their  rapid  sailing  ships, 
And  pf)mp  of  all  their  opulence;  and  more 
Than  all,  that  mightier  miracle,  whose  praise 
Shall  still  imperi:ihable  bloom,  the  maids 
Of  Delos,  priestesses  of  him' who  darts 
His  rays  arf)und  the  world.     A|)ollo  first 
They  glorv  with  hynminps,  and  exaJt 
17 


190 

Latona's  and  the  quiver'd  Dian's  name. 
Then  in  their  songs  record  the  men  of  old, 
And  famous  women,  soothing  with  the  strain 
The  listening  tribes  of  mortals ;  for  their  voice 
Can  imitate  the  modulated  soimds 
Of  various  human  tongues,  and  each  would  say 
Himself  were  speaking.    Such  their  aptitude 
Of  flexile  accents  and  melodious  speech. 

Hail,  oh  Latona  !  Dian !  Phoebus !  hail ! 
And  hail,  ye  charming  damsels,  and  farewell ! 
Bear  me  hereafter  in  your  memories ; 
And  should  some  stranger,  worn  with  hardships,  touch 
Upon  your  island  and  inquire,  "  What  man, 
Oh  maidens  !  lives  among  you  as  the  bard 
Of  sweetest  song,  and  most  enchants  your  ear?" 
Then  answer  for  me  all,  "  Our  sweetest  bard 
Is  the  blind  man  of  Chios'  rocky  isle." 

Hesiod  comes  next,  or  perhaps  he  was  the  contem- 
porary of  Homer;  certain  it  is,  that  they  lived  near 
together.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  many  of  his  works 
have  been  lost  in  the  lapse  of  ages.  These  would, 
doubtless,  have  thrown  much  light  on  the  manners  and 
history  of  his  times.  His  was  a  mighty  mind  ;  a  shrewd 
observer  of  occurrences,  and  a  happy  delineator  of 
things  as  he  saw  them.  If  he  had  less  fire,  he  had 
quite  as  much  philosophy'  as  his  great  predecessor  or 
contemporary,  Homer.  Hesiod's  Catalogue  of  Hero- 
ines must  have  been  an  invaluable  work,-if  we  are  al- 
lowed to  judge  from  what  has  come  down  tons  from 
his  pen.  "V\'omen  at  this  time,  and,  indeed,  ever  since, 
have  been  incidentally  spoken  of,  rather  than  directly 
and  exclusively.    This  work  is  said  to  have  consisted 


191 

of  five  parts,  and,  probably,  was  a  delicate  as  well  as 
an  elaborate  composition. 

He  was  learned  in  all  the  wisdom  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lived  :  for  he  wrote,  also,  on  soothsayers  ami  expla- 
nations of  signs.  This,  probably,  had  reference  to  the 
mysteries  of  religious  belief  in  that  age.  The  loss  of 
such  a  work,  from  such  a  man,  is  incalculable.  Ano- 
ther of  his  last  works  was  called  The  admonitions  of 
Chiron  to  Achilles.  This  must  have  been  tlie  remarks 
of  a  sage  to  a  hero,  and,  of  course,  full  of  wisiiom. 
Achilles  was  another  name  for  ferocity  and  military 
prowess.  His  wrath  was  direful,  and  almost  implaca- 
ble. The  sage  had  scope  enough  for  remarks  on  the 
dispositions  and  I'.ie  duties,  as  well  as  the  fates  of  men. 
Hesiod  was  also  a  good  agriculturalist,  and  wrote  on 
trees,  some  that  have  in  time  disappeared,  as  well  as  of 
those  now  found  in  Greece.  In  this  he  has  been  imi- 
tated by  many  of  his  poetical  successors,  by  Virgil  par- 
ticularly. 

The  shield  of  Achilles  was,  probably,  some  tradi- 
tionary tale,  seized  by  Homer  and  himself  as  contain- 
ing something  of  the  history  of  the  arts ;  and  from  Ho- 
mer's description,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  the 
arts  had  preceded  letters,  probably,  both  in  Egypt  and 
in  Greece,  as  the  first  written  laws  of  Greece  were 
not  known  until  about  six  hundred  years  before  the 
Christian  era.  That  his  works  abounded  in  the  com- 
mon-law, or  the  lex  non  scn'pta  of  his  country,  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  These  cu*/ow«,  axioms,oraj)hnrisiris, 
which  govern  men,  show  the  progress  of  knowledge 
more  than  written  laws  ;  because  written  laws  are  ge- 
nerally founded  on  the  unwritten,  and  the  former  must 
be  known  in  order  to  our  coming  to  a  full  understand- 


192 

ing  of  the  latter.  We  must  go  up  to  the  fountains  to 
be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  streams.  Such  a 
genius  as  Hesiod  could  not  have  dropped  a  word  that 
was  not  pregnant  with  wisdom.  Such  a  writer  is  an 
historian  on  a  great  scale.  He  shadows  out  man  as  he 
is,  without  offending  the  individual ;  and  as  he  lashed 
his  vices,  he  stimulated  him  to  virtuous  deeds.  Of  all 
the  sons  of  men  the  early  poets  were  the  greatest  bene- 
factors of  mankind ;  they  pointed  out  to  the  merchant 
his  pathway  of  commerce,  and  emblazoned  the  war- 
rior's deeds.  Without  them  half  the  glories  of  the 
world  would  have  been  lost ;  and  yet,  by  many,  they 
are  considered  as  the  mere  ornaments  of  the  intellec- 
tual society  of  that  age. 

JTrem  the  J^ield  of  Hercules, 

COMBAT  OF  HERCULES  AND  CYGNUS. 

Then,  truly,  from  their  close-compacted  cars, 

Instant  as  thought,  they  leap'd  to  earth ;  the  sea 

Of  kingly  Mars,  the  son  of  mighty  Jove. 

Aside,  though  not  remote,  the  charioteers 

The  coursers  drove  of  flowing  manes.     But  then 

Beneath  the  trampling  sound  of  rushing  feet 

The  broad  earth  sounded  hollow  ;  and  as  rocks, 

From  some  high  mountain-top  precipitate. 

Leap  with  a  bound,  and  o'er  each  other  whirl'dj 

Shock  in  the  dizzying  fall ;  and  many  an  oak 

Of  lofty  branch,  pine-tree,  and  poplar,  deep 

Of  root,  are  crush'd  beneath  them  as  their  course 

Rapidly  rolls  impetuous  to  the  plain  ; 

So  met  these  foes  encountering,  and  so  burst 

Their  mighty  clamour.    Echoing  loud  throughout 


193 

The  city  of  the  Myrmidons  gave  back 

Their  Ufted  voices,  and  lolchos  famed, 

And  Arne,  and  Anthea's  grass-girt  walls, 

And  Helice.     Thus  with  amazing  sliout 

They  join'd  in  battle.    All-considering  Jove 

Then  greatly  thimder'd  ;  from  the  clouds  of  heaven 

He  sent. forth  dews  of  blood,  and  signal  thus 

Of  onset  gave  to  his  high-daring  son. 

As  in  the  mountain  thickets  the  wild  boar, 
Grim  to  behold,  and  arm'd  with  jutting  fangs, 
Now  with  his  hunters  meditates  in  wrath 
The  conflict,  whetting  his  white  tusks  aslant ; 
Foam  drops  around  his  churning  jaws,  his  eyes 
Show  like  to  glimmering  fires,  and  o'er  his  neck, 
And  roughen'd  back,  he  raises  up  erect 
The  starting  bristles  ;  from  the  chariot  whirl'd 
By  steeds  of  war  such  leap'd  the  son  of  Jove. 

'Twas  in  that  season  when,  on  some  green  bough 
High-perch'd,  the  dusky-wing'd  cicada  first 
Shrill  chants  to  man  a  summer  note  ;  his  drink. 
His  balmy  food,  the  vegetative  dew, 
The  hvelong  day  from  early  dawn  he  pours 
His  voice,  what  time  the  sun's  exhaustive  heat 
Fierce  dries  the  frame :  'twas  in  that  season  when 
The  bristly  ears  of  millet  spring  with  grain 
\Miich  they  in  summer  sow ;  when  the  crude  grape 
Faint  reddens  on  the  vine  which  Bacclius  gave, 
The  joy  or  anguish  of  the  race  of  men ; 
Ev'n  in  that  season  join'd  the  war,  and  vast 
Tlie  battle's  tumult  rose  into  the  heaven. 
As  two  grim  hons,  for  a  roebuck  slain 
^Vroth,  in  contention  rush,  and  them  betwixt 
The  soimd  of  roaring  and  of  clashing  teeth 
17* 


194 

Ariseth ;  or  as  vultures,  curved  of  beak, 
Crooked  of  talon,  on  a  steepy  rock 
Contest  loud  screaming ;  if  perchance  below, 
Some  mountain-pastured  goat,  or  forest  stag, 
Sleek  press  the  plain,  whom  far  the  hunter-youth 
Pierc'd  with  fleet  arrow  from  the  bowstring  shrill 
Dismiss'd,  and  elsewhere  wander'd,  of  the  spot 
Unknowing ;  they  with  keenest  heed  the  prize 
Mark,  and,  in  swooping  rage,  each  other  tear 
With  bitterest  conflict,  so  vociferous  rush'd 
The  warriors  on  each  other.     Cygnus  then, 
Aiming  to  slay  the  son  of  Jupiter, 
Unmatch'd,  in  strength,  against  the  buckler  struck 
His  brazen  lance ;  but  through  the  metal  plate 
Broke  not,  the  present  of  a  God  preserved. 
On  th'  other  side,  he  of  Amphitryon  named, 
Strong  Hercules,  between  the  helm  and  shield 
Drove  his  long  spear,  and  underneath  the  chin 
Through  the  bare  neck  smote  violent  and  swift. 
The  murderous  ashen  beam  at  once  the  nerves 
Twain  of  the  neck  cleft  sheer ;  for  all  the  man 
Dropp'd,  and  his  force  went  from  him :  down  he  fell 
Headlong.    As  falls  a  thunder-blasted  oak. 
Or  perpendicular  rock,  riven  by  the  flash 
Of  Jove,  in  smouldering  smoke  is  hurl'd  from  high. 
So  fell  he,  and  his  brass-emblazon'd  mail 
Clatter'd  around  him.    Jove's  firm-hearted  son 
Then  left  the  corse,  abandoned  where  it  lay. 

We  must  pass  the  free  and  satirical  Archilochus — 
the  martial  strains  of  Tyrtseus— the  enchanting  songs 
of  the  love-smit  Sappho,  whose  genius  has  no  superior — 
and  the  never  to  be  forgotten  odes  of  Anacreon,  who 


195 

mingled  pliilosophy  with  love,  and  gave  grace  and  deli- 
cacy to  passion, — to  say  a  word  of  the  immortal  Pin- 
dar. He  was  born  at  Thibcs,  in  Boeotia,  a  place  pro- 
verbial for  the  dulness  of  the  natives,  or  said  to  be,  by 
the  proud  Athenians.  The  Delphi  Oracle  ordered  the 
people  to  appropriate  to  him  a  share  of  their  finest  pro- 
ductions of  nature,  and  an  iron  chair  was  placed  for 
him  in  the  temple  of  Apollo,  in  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  sit  and  declaim  his  verses.  This  chair  must 
liave  been  designated  by  Apollo  himself,  not  to  make 
his  a  hard  seat,  but  to  glance  at  the  fate  of  tlie  greatest 
number  of  his  successors.  He  was  a  favorite  of  kings, 
wlien  hving,  and  his  name  has  been  protected  by  them 
in  after  ages.  His  genius  was  lofty — his  spirit  bold — 
and  he  could  warm  the  heart,  and  fire  the  imagination 
beyond  his  compeers.  Milton  alone,  of  all  the  moderns, 
has  reached  his  terseness,  beauty,  and  harmony.  It  is 
said  by  many  that  his  genius  struck  oflf  these  odes, 
which  have  come  down  to  us,  at  first  impression.  It 
was  not,  could  not  have  been,  so.  Tlieir  depth  of 
thought— careful  arrangement— and  all  that  is  seem- 
ingly artless — is  proof  of  the  most  exquisite  art. 


THE  SECOND  OLYMPIC  ODE. 

On  the  Victory  in  tlie  Chariot-race,  gained  by  Theron, 
Tyrant  of  Agrigentum. 

I.  1. 

Harp-ruling  hymns!  what  Deity 
What  hero,  or  what  man, 
Shall  I  record  in  stately  songs? 


196 

Pisa  to  Jove  belongs : 

From  Hercules  Ih'  Olympic  games  beganj 

First-fruits  of  victory : 

But  Theron  is  my  choice  ; 

His  conquering  coursers  ask  my  voice; 

Just,  hospitable  he: 

Pillar  of  Agrigentum,  the  fair  flower 

Of  a  well-famed  ancestry  ; 

Ruling  the  cities  in. his  upright  power. 

1.2. 

Those  ancestors,  with  wandering  hardships  prest, 

The^iver-city's  towers  among 

Their  sacred  palace  fix'd,  and  place  of  rest : 

They  were  Sicilia's  eye  of  light : 

A  blessed  age  ensued:  and  led  along 

The  treasures  of  the  earth, 

And  favor  in  the  people's  sight, 

To  grace  their  inborn  worth. 

But  thou,  oh  Rhea's  son  !  oh  Jove  ! 

That  on  Olympus  sit'st,  and  from  above 

Extend'st  thy  sceptre  o'er 

This  noble  contest,  pinnacle  of  merit ; 

And  Alpheus'  winding  shore ; 

Now  gladden'd  with  the  voice  of  harp  and  song, 

To  their  sons'  sons  the  dynasty  prolong  ; 

And  let  the  race  inherit 

This  mother-soil  for  ever  more. 

1.3. 

Not  Time,  the  father  of  the  tide  of  things, 

Has  poM^er  to  make  the  deed  undone, 

That  from  injustice,  or  from  justice,  springs ; 


197 

Nor  \vith  retracting  hand  annihilate 

Tlie  end,  that  crowns  the  art  begun: 

Yet  the  concurrence  blest  of  Fate 

May  bid  oblivion  shroud  the  past ; 

Nor  strife's  disunion,  sown  of  late 

'Twixt  Hicro  and  Tlieron  ere  shall  last, 

To  shake  his  throne's  foundations  fast; 

For  hateful  evil  perishes  away, 

Down-trodden  and  subdued ; 

When  joy  and  blessing  have  on  wrath  ensued ; 

And  Providence  with  fate-o'er-ruling  sway 

Bears  up  felicity 

Above  the  spurns  of  wrong,  and  sets  it  high. 

II.  L 

This  truth  befits  the  tale  of  old 

Of  Cadmus'  daughters  told, 

^Vl^o  now,  beyond  the  Heavens,  are  seated  high 

Upon  their  thrones  of  gold. 

Tlieir  grief  and  sad  adversity 

Fell  underneath  th'  o'erpowering  weight  of  joy: 

And  Semele  of  flowing  hair. 

Who  died  in  thunder's  crasliing  flame, 

To  deified  existence  came : 

Dweller  with  Gods,  th"  Olympian  mount  above; 

Beloved  of  Pallas,  and  tlie  Father  Jove, 

And  the  ivy-wreathed  Boy. 

II.  2. 

And  legends  tell,  that,  midst  the  sea, 

With  Nereus'  daughters,  virgins  of  the  wave, 

The  Gods  to  Ino  gave 

A  hfe  that  should  immortal  be, 


198 

An  ever-blooming  prime, 

Unwithering  through  the  round  of  time. 

So  shifts  from  ill  to  good  the  human  scene; 

Nor  ere  has  mortal  been 

Who  knows  his  death's  appointed  goal : 

Nor  if  his  tranquil  Day,  that  rose  to  run, 

Child  of  the  radiant  sun, 

In  glory  of  its  strength,  a  course  of  light,. 

With  unobstructed  good  shall  journey  bright 

Till  its  wheels  have  ceas'd  to  roll. 

But  tides  of  flowing  gladness 

Have  mix'd  in  ebb  and  flow  with  waves  of  sadness, 

And  this  the  lot  of  every  human  soul. 

II.  3. 

Thus  ever-changing  Destiny 

That  to  thy  own  paternal  line 

Bade  their  lot  serenely  shine 

With  bliss,  sent  down  from  Heaven  on  high  j 

At  other  time  the  tide  of  evil  roli'd ; 

Since  (Edipus,  whom  Fate  resistless  drew, 

His  father  Laius  met,  and  slew. 

And  thus  in  Delphos  crown'd  the  oracle  of  old. 

The  great  dramatic  poets  followed  Homer,  Hesiod, 
and  other  descriptive  and  didactic  poets.  Thespis, 
first,  five  hundred  and  thirty-six  years  before  the  Chris- 
tian era.  jEschylus  was  born  in  the  sixty-third  Olym- 
piad, not  long  after.  He  has  been  considered  the  father 
of  the  drama.  Saphocles  followed  him,  and  nearly 
equalled  him  in  merit;  and,  in  the  opinion  of  many, 
Euripides  surpassed  both.  But  in  a  cursory  view  of 
the  subject,  we  cannot  enter  into  a  critical  analysis  of 


199 

the  several  merits  of  each  of  these  great  votaries  of 
the  tragic  muse;  but,  suflice  it  to  say,  that  they  stand 
as  imperishable  monuments  of  intellectual  power  in 
the  waste  of  time,  admired  and  venerated,  copied  and 
imitated,  by  all  the  sons  of  genius  who  have  ever  at- 
tempted a  dramatic  work.  These  great  productions 
have  been  a  treasure  of  sentiment  and  maxims  of  a 
moral  nature  ever  since.  They  have  lost  nothing  of 
tlieir  simplicity,  force,  and  beauty,  in  the  space  of  more 
than  twenty-three  hundred  years.  They  encouraged 
the  virtuous,  while  they  lashed  the  vicious,  with  an 
unsparing  hand.  They  portrayed  the  sublime  agita- 
tions of  the  human  passions  when  reason  was  lost,  and 
every  law,  human  and  divine,  disregarded.  Hatred, 
revenge,  avarice,  jealousy,  pride,  ambition,  and  scorn, 
were  exhibited  to  the  lif'- ;  and  all  the  generous,  softer, 
and  nobler  feelings  were  made,  from  their  pens,  still 
more  lovely.  These  mighty  minds  were  the  historians 
of  the  inner  man — the  painters  of  the  soul;  who  "held, 
as  'twere,  the  mirror  up  to  nature." 

The  age  of  the  divine  Plato  may  be  called  the  age  of 
pliilosophy.  He  was  born  428  years  before  Christ, 
when  Athens  was  ris  ng  in  her  glory.  He  was  the 
friend  and  pupil  of  Socrates,  and  has  given,  in  liis  works, 
about  all  that  h:i3  come  down  to  us  of  that  great  sage. 
After  'the  death  of  Socrates,  he  retired  to  Megora,  and 
lived  with  his  friend  F^uclid.  T^ese,  indeed,  were  attic 
nights,  when  Kuclid  walked  twenty  miles  to  spcMid  his 
evening  hours  with  .Socrates,  Plato,  and  the  other  great 
men  of  Athens,  and  returned  before  the  rising  sun. 
ThL'se  men  had  sound  minds  in  sound  bodies.  Plato 
often  wandered  from  Athens  to  ac(iuire  and  to  teach. 
He  softened  the  hard  hearts  of  tyrants,  and  roused 


200 

the  sensual  to  virtue  by  his  eloquence.  While  he  ad- 
hered to  the  simple  but  grand  and  ennobling  doctrines 
of  Socrates,  his  pathway  was  clear  and  upward  as 
ever  was  ascended,  until  heaven  sent  light  and  life 
by  the  gospel ;  but  commingling  them  with  the  mys- 
teries taught  by  Pythagoras,  he  often  wandered  in 
mazes,  for  a  retreat  from  which  neither  he  nor  his 
followers  ever  found  a  clue.  But  except  when  he  in- 
dulged in  his  rhapsodies,  his  doctrines  flowed  in  a  tide 
of  light  from  the  academy,  to  illumine  Athens  and 
the  world,  and  to  delight  men  in  all  future  ages.  His 
was  an  enviable  life.  To  be  the  instructor  of  three 
generations,  and  to  find  a  sepulchre  on  the  spot  made 
sacred  by  his  own  wisdom  and  eloquence,  has  been  the 
lot  of  but  few  in  this  world. 

The  coadjutors  and  pupils  of  Plato  formed  the  most 
brilliant  cluster  of  great  men  the  world  ever  beheld. 
While  Plato  was  lecturing  at  the  academy,  a  number 
of  his  friends  were  entertaining  and  enlightening 
Greece  with  their  high  gifts.  The  stagarite  was  then 
contemplating  his  deep  philosophy,  and  condensing 
his  beautiful  and  copious  vernacular,  to  express  his 
thoughts,  which  seemed  almost  too  mighty  for  words. 
He  erected  a  system  that  held  mankind  in  thraldom, 
until  Bacon  attacked  the  mighty  fabric,  and  broke  it 
down  with  the  ponderous  engine  of  truth  and  sound 
reasoning.  And,  even  now,  some  relics  of  it  remain 
in  the  ancient  schools  of  Europe.  As  Plato  was  clos- 
ing his  splendid  career,  Demosthenes  was  thundering 
his  patriotism  over  Greece,  and  making  the  enemies  of 
Athens  tremble,  although  the  fulness  of  his  glory  did 
not  come  until  the  divine  philosopher  was  dead. 


201 

EXTRACT  FROM 

OL\'NTHIAC  THE  THIRD. 

I  am  persuaded,  Athenians,  that  you  ■would  account 
it  less  valuable  to  possess  the  greatest  riches,*  than 
to  have  the  true  interest  of  the  state  on  this  emergen- 
cy clearly  laid  belbre  you.  It  is  your  part,  therefore, 
readily  and  cheerfully  to  attend  to  all  who  are  dispos- 
ed to  offer  their  opinions:  for  your  regards  need  not 
be  confined  to  those  whose  counsels  are  the  eflFect  of 
premeditation  :t  it  is  your  good  fortune  to  have  men 
among  you  who  can  at  once  suggest  many  points  of 
jnoment.  From  opinions,  therefore,  of  every  kind, 
you  may  easily  choose  that  most  conducive  to  your 
interest. 

And  now,  Athenians,  the  present  juncture  calls  upon 
us ;  we  almost  hear  its  voice,  declaring  loudly  that  you 
yourselves  must  engage  in  these  affairs,  if  you  have 
the  least  attention  to  your  own  security.  You  enter- 
tain I  know  not  what  sentiments  on  this  occasion. 
My  opinion  is,  that  the  reinforcements  should  be  in- 
stantly decreed  ;  that  they  should  be  raised  witli  all 
possible  expedition ;  that  so  our  succour  may  be  sent 

•  The  greatest  richcs.l-rifian  finds  out  a  particuUir  propriety  in  this  exor- 
dium. He  observes,  that  as  the  orator  intends  to  recommend  to  ihcm  to  gtve 
up  their  ttieatrical  appointments,  lic  prepares  Ihem  for  it  by  this  oljservatlon ; 
and  wUle  he  is  endcavorine  to  persuade  them  to  a  just  disregard  of  money, 
appears  as  if  he  only  spoke  their  sentiments. 

t  Premedllatidn.l— M.  Tourrell  admires  the  greatness  of  mind  of  Dcmos- 
thene<,  who,  thotiph  he  gloried  in  the  pains  and  labor  his  orations  cost  him, 
was  yet  superior  to  that  low  and  malignant  passion  which  oftentimes  prompts 
us  to  decry  lhf«e  talents  which  we  do  not  possess.  I  suspect,  however,  that 
Ihls  passage  was  oo(a.iioncd  liy  some  particular  circumstance  in  the  debate. 
Perhaps  some  speaker,  wl,o  opi<.wl  Demosthenes,  might  have  urged  his  opi- 
nion soinewbAt  ioemalically,  as  the  refult  of  mature  reflection  and  dcllb«- 
rmtUjo.  18 


202 

from  this  city,  and  all  former  inconveniences  be  avoid- 
ed ;  and  that  you  should  send  ambassadors  to  notify 
these  things,  and  to  secure  our  interests  by  their  pre- 
sence. For  as  he  is  a  man  of  consummate  policy, 
complete  in  the  art  of  turning  every  incident  to  his 
own  advantage,  there  is  the  utmost  reason  to  fear,  that 
partly  by  concessions,  where  they  may  be  seasonable, 
partly  by  menaces  (and  his  menaces  may*  be  be- 
lieved), and  partly  by  rendering  us  and  our  absence 
suspected,  he  may  tear  from  us  something  of  the  last 
importance,  and  force  into  his  own  service. 

Those  very  circumstances,  however,  which  contri- 
bute to  the  power  of  Philip  are  happily  the  most  favor- 
able to  us :  for  that  uncontrolled  command,  with  which 
he  governs  all  transactions  public  and  secret ;  his  en- 
tire direction  of  his  army,  as  their  leader,  their  sove- 
reign, and  their  treasurer ;  and  his  diligence,  in  giving 
life  to  every  part  of  it  by  his  presence ;  these  things 
greatly  contribute  to  carrying  on  a  war  with  expedi- 
tion and  success,  but  are  powerful  obstacles  to  that  ac- 
commodation which  he  would  gladly  make  with  the 
Olynthians.  For  the  Olynthians  see  plainly  that  they 
do  not  now  fight  for  glory,  or  for  part  of  their  territo- 
ry, but  to  defend  their  state  from  dissolution  and  sla- 
very. They  know  how  he  rewarded  those  traitors  of 
Amphipolis  who  made  him  master  of  that  city,  and 
those  of  Pydna  who  opened  their  gates  to  him.  In  a 
tvord,  free  states,  I  think,  must  ever  look  witli  suspi- 
cion on  an  absolute  monarchy  ;  but  a  neighboring  mo- 
narchy must  double  their  apprehensions. 


*  His  menaces  may,  &C]— Although  bis  promises  could  by  no  means  be 
relied  on. 


203 

Convinced  of  what  hath  fiow  been  offered,  and  pos- 
sessed Miili  every  other  just  and  worthy  sentiment, 
you  must  be  resolved,  Athenians,  you  must  exert  your 
spirit ;  you  must  apply  to  the  war  now,  if  ever;  your 
fortunes,  your  persons,  your  whole  powers,  are  now 
demanded.  There  is  no  excuse,  no  pretence  left  for 
declining  the  performance  of  your  duty;  for  tliat 
which  you  were  all  ever  urging  loudly,  that  the  Olyn- 
thians  should  be  engaged  in  a  war  with  Philip,  hath 
now  happened  of  itself;  and  this  in  a  manner  most 
agreeable  to  our  interest.  For,  if  they  had  entered 
into  this  war  at  our  persuasion,  they  must  have  been 
precarious  allies,  without  steadiness  or  resolution :  but, 
as  their  private  injuries  have  made  them  enemies  to 
Philip,  it  is  probable  that  enmity  will  be  lasting,  both 
on  account  of  what  they  fear,  and  what  they  have  alrea- 
dy suffered.  My  couulrynu-ii !  Iti  not  so  favorable  an 
opportunity  escape  you;  do  not  repeat  that  error 
which  hath  been  so  often  fatal  to  you.  For  when,  at 
our  return  from  assisting  the  Euboeans,*  HieYax  and 
Stratocles,  citizens  of  Amphipolis,  mounted  this  galle- 
ry.t  and  pressed  you  to  send  out  your  navy,  and  to 
take  their  city  under  your  protection,  had  we  discover- 
ed that  resolution  in  our  own  cause  which  we  exert- 
ed for  the  safety  of  Euboea,  then  had  Amphipolis  been- 
yours,  and  all  those  difficulties  had  been  avoided  in 
which  you  have  been  since  involved.     Again,  when 

*  Tt.c  EulKEans.)— Tills  rcfcrg  to  «ie  expedition  In  favor  of  ilio  Kuboeans 
acalniit  (he  Thebans.  The  Athr>nlnn5  prepared  Tor  this  expedition  in  thjree 
days,  according  to  Oemosthen'ffi ;  In  five,  nccordin?  to  iEsrlilnes;  and  their 
Bufc«s«  w;n  a-s  tiiddr-n  as  ihclr  prep.irdtlon. 

»  This  pallfry  )— In  the  orl^nal,  tovti  to  BUM  A;  that  eminence  where  nil 
the  public  vpealcea  were  pUtc«d,  and  from  wlicncc  the  people  were  aildrcsscd 
CO  all  occaiioiu. 


204 

we  received  advice  of  the  sieges  of  Pydna,  Potidaea, 
Methone,  Pagasee,  and  other  places  (for  I  would  not 
detain  you  with  a  particular  recital,)  had  we  ourselves 
marched  with  a  due  spirit  and  alacrity  to  the  relief  of 
the  first  of  these  cities,  we  should  now  find  much  more 
compliance,  much  more  humility  in  Philip.  But  by 
still  neglecting  the  present,  and  imagining  our  future 
interests  will  not  demand  our  care,  we  have  aggran- 
dized our  enemy,  we  have  raised  him  to  a  degree  of 
eminence  greater  than  any  king  of  Macedon  hath  ever 
yet  enjoyed.  Now,  we  have  another  opportunity — 
that  which  the  Olynthians  of  themselves  present  to 
the  state ;  one  no  less  considerable  than  any  of  the 
former. 

And,  in  my  opinion,  Athenians,  if  a  man  were  ta 
bring  the  dealings  of  the  gods  towards  us  to  a  fair 
accoimt,  though  many  things  might  a,ppfiar  not  quite 
agreeable  to  our  wishes,  yet  he  would  ackuuwledgc. 
that  we  had  been  highly  favored  by  them;  and  with 
great  reason :  for  that  many  places  have  been  lost  in 
the  course  of  war  is  truly  to  be  charged  to  our  own 
weak  conduct.  But  that  the  difficulties  arisen  from 
hence  have  not  long  aflFected  us;  and  that  an  alliance 
now  presents  itself  to  remove  them,  if  we  are  disposed 
to  make  the  just  use  of  it;  this  I  cannot  but  ascribe  to 
the  Divine  goodness.  But  the  sarrie  thing  happens  in 
this  case  as  in  the  use  of  riches.  If  a  man  be  care- 
ful to  save  those  he  hath  acquired,  he  readily  acknow- 
ledges the  kindness  of  fortune;  but  if  by  his  impru- 
dence they  be  once  lost,  with  them  he  also  loses  the 
sense  of  gratitude.  So  in  political  affairs,  they  who 
neglect  to  improve  their  opportunities,  forget  the  favors 
which  the  gods  have  bestowed ;  for  it  is  the  ultimate 


205 

event  whicli  g:eiierally  determines  men's  judgment  of 
every  thiii<i  precedent:  Mid,  therefore,  all  atlliirs  here- 
after should  engage  your  strictest  care ;  that,  by  cor- 
recting our  errors,  we  may  wipe  off  the  inglorious  stain 
of  past  actions.  But  should  we  be  deaf  to  these  men 
too,  and  should  he  be  suffered  to  subvert  Olynthus; 
say,  what  can  prevent  him  from  marching  his  forces 
into  whatever  territory  he  pleases  ? 

Is  there  not  a  man  among  you,  Athenians,  who  re- 
flects by  what  steps  Philip,  from  a  beginning  so  incon- 
siderable, hath  mounted  to  this  height  of  power  ?  First, 
he  took.  Amphipolis  ;  then  he  became  master  of  Pyd- 
na ;  then  Potidaja  fell ;  then  Methone  ;  then  came  his 
inroad  into  Thessaly :  after  this,  having  disposed  affairs 
at  Pherae,  at  Pagasae,  at  Magnesia,  entirely  as  he  pleas- 
ed, he  marched  into  Tlirace.  Here,  while  engaged*  in 
expelling  some,  and  establishing  other  princes,  he  fell 
sick.  Again  recovering,  he  never  turned  a  moment 
from  his  course  to  ease  or  indulgence,  but  instantly 
attacked  the  Olynthians.     His  expeditions  against  the 

r  •  Into  Thrace.  Here,  while  engaged,  *c.]— Thrace  was  inhabited  by  an  In- 
finite numtier  of  different  people,  whose  names  Herodotus  has  transmitted. 
And  he  observes,  tiiat  could  they  have  united  under  a  single  chief,  or  connect- 
ed tlieraselves  by  interest  or  sentiment,  they  would  have  formed  a  body  liiffl- 
nltely  superior  toall  their  neiehbors.  After  Teres,  the  Thracians  had  divers 
Icings.  This  prince  h.-ul  two  sons,  Sitalcis  and  .9paradocus,  among  whose  des- 
cendants various  contests  arose,  till,  aOer  a  series  of  iL-iun^alions  ami  revolu- 
tions, Scuthes  recovered  part  of  the  territory  of  his  father  Mas.adcs,  and  trans- 
m  tlf^  the  .succession  pcarealiiy  to  Cons  the  father  of  Cersoblfplcs  (iis  Demos- 
Uiene*  says  ;  not  his  brother,  as  Dlodorus).  At  the  death  of  Colls  tlie  divisions 
recommenced,  and  in  the  place  of  one  Iciiie  Thrace  liad  three,  Ctrsoblcpfes, 
Berl^lcs,  and  Amailoow.  CtrsotJeptes  ilisposscsscd  the  other  two.  and  was 
himself  dnthTOned  by  Philip.  Fronlinuj  reports,  Uint  Alexander,  when  be 
hail  con(iucre<l  Thrace,  brouiht  the  princes  of  th.it  country  v,  Ith  him  in  his 
cxp*-"!!!!'  n  into  Asin,  to  prevent  llwlr  nisinc  any  conimotioiis  In  hi.s  alisencei 
.1  pr.of  that  Philip  and  Alexander  had  established  bcveial  petty  kin^  in 
Ttazcc,  who  were  nmaXt  to  Maoedon.— Tourrett. 

18* 


206 

Illyriaiis,  the  Pasonians,  against  Arymbas,*  I  pass  all 
over. — But  I  may  be  asked,  why  this  recital  now? 
That  you  may  know  and  see  your  own  error,  in  ever 
neglecting  some  part  of  your  affairs,  as  if  beneath  your 
regard  ;  and  that  active  spirit  with  which  Philip  pur- 
sues his  designs;  which  ever  fires  him,  and  which 
never  can  permit  him  to  rest  satisfied  with  those  things 
he  hath  already  accomplished.  If,  then,  he  determines 
fivmly  and  invariably  to  pursue  his  conqueists;  and  if 
we  are  obstinately  resolved  against  every  vigorous  and 
effectual  measure ;  think,  what  consequences  may  we 
expect!  In  the  name  of  Heaven!  can  any  man  be  so 
weak,  as  not  to  know  that,  by  neglecting  this  war,  we 
are  transfering  it  from  that  country  to  our  own  ?  And 
should  this  happen,  I  fear,  Athenians,  that  as  they  who 
inconsiderately  borrow  money  on  high  interest,  after  a 
short-lived  affluence  are  deprived  of  their  own  for- 
tunes ;  so  we,  by  this  continued  indolence,  by  consult- 
ing only  our  ease  and  pleasure,  may  be  reduced  to  the 
grievous  necessity  of  engaging  in  affairs  the  most 
shocking  and  disagreeable,  and  of  exposing  ourselves 
in  the  defence  of  this  our  native  territory." 

To  understand  the  history  of  these  ages,  most  of  the 
great  orators  of  them  should  be  consulted.  They  abound 
in  lessons  of  wisdom  and  beauties  of  composition.  If 
some  of  their  beauties  are  lost  in  translations,  a  com- 

'  Arymbas.]— He  was  the  son  of  Alcetas,  king  of  Epinis,  and  brother  to 
Keoptolemus,  whose  daughter  Olympias  Philip  married.  About  three  years 
before  the  date  of  this  oration  the  death  of  their  father  produced  a  dis- 
pute between  th'e  brothers  about  the  succession.  Arymbas  was  the  lawful 
heir;  yet  Philip  obliged  liim,  by  force  of  arms,  to  divide  the  l<ingdom  with 
Neoptolemns :  and  not  contented  with  this,  at  the  death  of  Arymbas,  he  found 
means  by  liis  intrigues  and  menancos,  to  prevail  on  the  Epirots  to  biinish  his 
son,  and  to  constitute  Alexander  the  son  of  Neoptoleraus  sole  mon.irclv— 
TcuTTca. 


2W 

petent  knowledge  of  their  subjects,  and  the  metliods  of 
treating  them  are  retained.  If  a  Uttle  of  the  classic 
unction  evaporates  in  a  translation,  much  of  the  origi- 
nal virtue  remains,  to  repay  the  reader  for  all  his  at- 
tentions to  them. 

Isocrates  is  the  model  of  many  of  our  best  writers. 
Sir  William  Jones,  the  most  accomplished  of  modern 
scholars,  certainly  drew  from  this  princely  writer ;  not 
directly,  but  as  steel  takes  mysterious  and  powerful 
principles  from  the  loadstone,  mind  touches  mind  to 
the  utmost  attractive  power,  and  loses  nothing  by  im- 
parting its  virtue.  The  giant  orators  of  modern  times 
owe  much  of  their  celebrity  to  the  study  of  the  an- 
cients. Tlie  elder  Pitt's  orations  had  the  polished  and 
measured  sentences  of  Isocrates,  with  the  copiousness 
of  Cicero  ;  while  the  younger  Pitt,  with  less  feeling, 
and  more  philosophical  condensation,  made  Demos- 
thenes his  archetype.  Some  of  our  own  speakers  have 
drank  deeply  of  these  fountains,  and  found  them  the 
waters  of  inspiration. 

There  was  another  class  of  writers  among  the 
Greeks,  who  were  distinctly  stilect  historians.  '  The 
prince  of  these  was  Herodotus.  Cicero,  the  first  writer 
of  any  age,  stiled  him  the  father  of  history.  Herodo- 
tus was  born  in  Halicarna-ssus,  in  Caria,  in  the  seventy- 
fourth  Olympiad,  about  four  hundred  and  eighty-four 
years  before  Christ,  and  wa.s  senior  to  the  age  of  phi- 
losophy. He  was  born  in  troublesome  times,  his  coun- 
try being  then  in  thraldom.  He  began  his  travels  in 
youth,  and  extended  tlicm  through  Greece,  Italy,  and 
EgypJ.  He  went  out  to  observe  every  thing  of  the 
origin  and  character  of  nations ;  and  tlie  i)riests  of 
Egypt  finding  out  his  thirst  for  knowledge,  opened 


208 

their  treasures  to  him  with  pleasure  and  confidence 
for  the  learned  are  generally  willing  to  impart  their 
stores  of  knowledge,  when  they  find  those  anxious  to 
learn.  He  returned  a  patriot ;  and  having  assisted  to 
retrieve  his  country  from  its  oppressors,  he  retired 
to  Ionia  to  write  the  history  which  has  given  him  fame, 
and  the  world  so  much  information.  His  mother 
tongue  was  the  Doric,  but  he  preferred  the  bland  Io- 
nian dialect,  as  it  was  most  in  vogue  as  a  medium  of 
polite  literature  in  his  time.  When  he  was  thirty-nine 
years  old  he  had  finished  his  work,  and  repaired  to  the 
Olympic  games,  and  there  read  his  history  to  his  coun- 
trymen. It  was  received  with  universal  applause.  It 
was  divided  into  nine  books,  and  his  countrymen 
named  them,  in  honor  of  his  genius,  after  the  nine 
muses.  This  history  embraced  a  period  of  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  years,  from  Cyrus  the  Great  to  Xerxes ; 
and  it  contained,  besides  the  transactions  between  Per- 
sia and  Greece,  some  sketches  of  other  countries. 

He  has  been  charged  with  a  love  of  the  marvellous, 
but  more  modern  historians  have  justified  him  in  some 
things.  It  often  happens  that  men  of  limited  intelli- 
gence are  more  incredulous  than  those  of  full  minds  j 
and,  indeed,  many  things,  says  Herodotus,  '■'■  I  giveyou 
as  I  received  thcvi,''^  not  putting  his  veracity  at  stake  for 
the  truth  of  them.  In  those  matters  which  happened 
in  his  time  no  one  ever  doubted  his  correctness.  His 
style  is  easy,  graceful,  flowing,  and,  at  times,  exuberant 
and  sparkling  with  genius.  His  periods  flow  in  Ionian 
mellifluousness,  and  his  history  remains  a  model  for  fu- 
ture generations.  Some  things  in  his  geography  have 
often  been  questioned,  but  Major  l^onnells,  an  English 
gentleman,  has  lately  satisfactorily  explained  most  of 


209 

it.  To  the  English  and  French  officers  we  are  indebted 
for  maiiy  admirable  tracts  upon  ancient  geography. 
They  have  improved  every  opportunity  to  enlighten 
mankind  ;  and  their  profession  gives  them  both  leisure 
and  opportunity.  And  it  is  but  justice  to  say  that 
among  the  best  members  of  the  peace  society,  have 
been  found  those  trained  to  arms.  There  is  nothing 
more  narrow  minded  than  enmities  to  particular  pro- 
fessions. Professions  are  the  accidents  of  society, 
while  talents  are  the  gift  of  God  ;  and  their  improve- 
ment tlie  disposition  or  the  for'.uiie  of  their  possessors. 
I  look  forward  to  this  profession  from  our  national 
school  for  those  who  shall  give  us  the  minute  history 
of  our  country,  as  it  regards  her  battles,  her  sufferings, 
and  her  triumphs,  in  her  days  of  small  things,  which 
have  become  great  by  consequences.  Already  they 
have  begun  their  topographical  surveys,  and  laid  a 
hroart  foundation  of  physic;d  geography.  The  military 
and  civil  departments  will  follow,  and  not  at  a  far  dis- 
tant period. 

Thucydides,  it  is  said,  when  a  youth,  heard  Herodo- 
tus read  his  history  at  the  Olympic  games-,  and  the 
genius  of  history  kindled  in  his  soul  a  fire  that  did  not 
go  out  during  his  life.  He  treated  of  his  own  country ; 
and  leaving  the  rules  of  the  poets,  he  made  his  fame 
to  rest  rather  on  the  faitlifulness  of  his  narrative  and 
descriptions,  and  the  accuracy  of  his  chronology,  than 
on  the  splendor  of  his  diction,  or  the  power  of  his  ge- 
nius in  poising  periods,  and  inventing  illustrations.  It 
may  be  said  of  him,  that  he  is  a  higher  standard  for 
accuracy  than  his  great  predecessor,  but  not  so  fine  a 
writer.  He  had,  probably,  heard  Herodotus  criticised 
for  being  too  negligent  of  dates,  and  he  was  careful  not 


210 

to  err  on  that  side.  Dates  sometimes  injure  the  har- 
mony of  periods,  but,  nevertheless,  ;ire  indispensable  in 
philosophical  history.  They  are  sad  incumbrances  to 
impassioned  writers,  but  are  never  neglected  by  honest 
ones.  If  history  were  considered  only  as  an  amusing 
tale,  dates  would,  indeed,  be  useless ;  but  if  it  be  writ- 
ten for  the  purpose  of  enlarging  the  mind  and  instruct- 
ing us  in  the  survey  of  nations,  as  well  as  of  individu- 
als, dates  must  be  crowded  into  the  page,  notwithstand- 
ing they  march  awkwardly  on  with  sentiment,  and  are 
annoying  to  ornament.  A  bald  chronicle  is  tedious 
enough  in  all  conscience,  but  a  history  without  time  or 
place  is  no  better  than  a  fable  ;  in  fact,  it  is  a  fable. 

The  works  of  Xenophon  are  more  familiarly  read  in 
the  original,  and  in  translations,  than  those  of  any  of 
his  predecessors  ;  perhaps,  for  the  reason  that  he  had 
more  fame  as  a  warrior  than  most  scholars.  His  re- 
treat with  the  ten  thousand  Greeks,  has  been  consider- 
ed by  military  chieftains,  of  all  times  since,  as  a  most 
masterly  feat  ot  generalship.  This  story  is  told  in  such 
a  simple,  elegant  manner,  that  youth  and  age,  learned 
and  unlearned,  are  delighted  to  read  it.  The  perseve- 
rance and  fortitude  of  this  Grecian  band  have  attracted 
and  roused  our  infant  wonder,  before  we  had  ever 
thumbed  a  grammar,  or  conjugated  a  verb.  But  in 
this,  the  youthful  hero  was  only  emulating  the  feeling 
of  Alexander  the  Great,  who  was  fired  by  the  subject, 
and  who  was  determined  to  march  into  Persia,  by 
learning  how  Xenophon  marched  out.  If  the  elder 
was  not  the  greater,  he  was  the  most  prudent  man. 
The  son  of  Philip  was  a  wonder  of  the  world.  Full  of 
the  knowledge  of  the  age,  he  was  a  patron  of  philoso- 
phy, and  a  protector  of  wise  men.     His  instructer,  the 


211 

stagarite,  was  the  most  acute  of  all  the  philosophers  of 
antiquity,  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  the  writings 
of  the  sage,  or  the  sword  of  the  warrior,  has  had  the 
greatest  eflect  on  mankind.  If  it  were  kft  to  tlie 
schoolmen  they  would  decide  for  Aristotle,  against 
Alexander;  but  had  the  question  been  submitted  to 
Xapoleon,  he  would  have  held  a  different  opinion. 

The  track  of  Alexander  from  Macedon  to  the  Gran- 
icus,  from  thence  to  India,  and  the  triumphal  entry 
into  Babylon,  was  one  unquenchable  blaze  of  glory, 
wliich  has  illumined  the  world  unto  the  present  time, 
and  has  now  become  a  familiar  household  flame,  as  full 
of  reflection  as  attraction,  and  oflers  as  much  for  the 
moralistas  for  tiie  historian.  Individuals  perish — gene- 
rations pass  away — empires  sink  to  dust — but  the  grave 
digger.  Time,  has  no  influence  over  the  immortal  part 
of  man  ;  that  is  indestructible.  The  bounds  of  earth 
are  narrow,  extended  as  they  may  seem  ;  but  the  hopes 
of  man  are  boundless,  obscure  as  they  are.  Every 
page  of  history  is  full  of  wisdom,  but  no  one  more  so 
than  the  history  of  Alexander  the  Great.  I  am  happy 
to  sec  that  it  is  in  the  volumes  composing  what  is  called 
the  Ffnnily  Library. 

There  is  a  fastidiousness  among  many  of  our  modern 
scholars  about  reading  ancient  history,  and  particularly 
tlie  history  of  such  warriors  as  Alexander.  An  orator 
of  some  note,  within  a  sliort  time  past,  has  decried  the 
histories  of  heroes  as  tending  to  make  our  youth  of 
too  martial  a  spirit.  I  can  only  say,  that  I  diflcr  en- 
tirely from  him  in  his  conclusions.  The  fate  of  the 
greatest  heroes  i.s  calcidated  1 1  damp  the  ardor  of  a 
martial  passion.  Kvery  one,  as  he  reads,  reflects  how 
short  is  the  course  of  tlie  sucr(  ssful  conqueror,  and  in 


212 

how  restless  and  unhappy  a  manner  eA^en  the  few  years 
he  lives,  pass  away.  The  great  Roman  satirist  had 
a  most  thorough  view  of  human  nature,  and  he  puts 
the  hfe  of  Alexander  in  its  true  light  in  a  few  lines. 

There  can  be  no  danger  in  opening  all  the  fountains 
of  human  knowledge  to  the  human  mind,  as  early  as 
it  can  comprehend  what  it  reads,  if  under  proper 
guidance.  Tlie  mind  should  be  exposed  as  the  Spar- 
tans exposed  their  infants,  provided  they  are  watched 
with  parental  care.  The  world  is  full  of  moral  evil,  as 
well  as  natural,  and  flying  from  exposure  is  not  the 
way  to  avoid  either.  Care  and  attention,  anxious  atten- 
tion, are  necessary.  It  is  the  duty  of  one  generation  to 
educate  another.  The  youth  sliould  see  all,  grasp  at 
the  good,  eschew  the  evil,  and  overcome  the  tempting. 
The  union  of  moral  delicacy  with  moral  hardihood,  is 
a  desideratum  in  education.  A  good  sound  moral,  in- 
tellectual, and  religious  education  is  the  great  life  pre- 
server in  the  storms  and  tempests  of  our  existence; 
and  will,  by  the  power  of  the  Father  of  all  things,  con- 
duct us  to  the  haven  of  everlasting  happiness. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

We  shall  now  take  a  survey  of  the  Roman  empire,  one 
which  has  been  of  more  importance  to  the  world  than 
any  to  be  found  in  the  annals  of  history.  Its  early  history 
is  involved  in  fable  and  abounds  in  legends.  The  time 
of  the  foundation  of  the  city  has  not  been  precisely 
fixed ;  but  some  of  the  most  accurate  writers  of  the 


213 

present  daj-,  fix  it  in  tlie  year  3251,  that  is,  753  years 
before  Christ. 

In  the  reign  of  the  kings  for  244  years,  the  city  grew 
in  size  and  strength.  The  good  Nunia  had  tried  hard 
to  change  the  habits  of  the  people,  wliich  had  been 
pretty  deeply  rooted  in  the  days  of  his  predecessors; 
in  this  he  succeeded  in  part,  for  during  his  long  reign 
there  was  peace,  but  his  successors  were  ambitious,  and 
Rome  was  growing  up  by  the  spoils  of  conquered  na- 
tions. On  the  expulsion  of  Tarquin,  a  consular  govern- 
ment was  formed.  This  revolution  grew  out  of  an 
outrage  committed  on "  the  rights  of  a  citizen ;  it  was 
also,  a  violation  of  the  rights  of  nature;  and  ended  by 
the  expulsion  of  the  proud  and  savage  race  of  kings. 
The  quiet  of  Rome  was  secured  by  the  stern  virtues  of 
Lucius  Junius  Brutus,  who  taught  the  citizens  that 
they  must  ubcy  the  laws  by  a  high  resolve  of  justice — 
by  adjudgmg  to  execution  his  son  who  had  committed 
an  offence  against  them.  To  this  act  of  the  godlike 
Brutus,  I  shall  leave  it  for  moralists  to  give  the  proper 
epithet:  I  will  not  do  it.  But,  however  high  or  low 
the  deed  may  rank  in  morals,  it  was  a  masterly  stroke 
of  political  wisdom,  and  the  blood  of  millions  was  saved 
by  it ;  for  by  it  consular  power  was  established,  and  a 
dread  of  insulting  tlie  majesty  of  the  laws  was  im- 
pressed in  tlie  minds  of  the  Roman  people,  which  was 
never  forgotten  in  the  long  continuance  of  consular 
power. 

The  consuls  were,  according  to  ihcir  laws,  patricians 
by  birtli,  elected  every  year.  Abuses  soon  crept  into 
consular  authority,  which  was  quite  equal,  while  it 
lasted,  to  kingly  jiower.  In  494,  before  Christ,  the 
plebeians  revolted  from  the  tyranny  of  the  consuls  and 
19 


214 

*he  arbitrary  conduct  of  the  senate,  and  confusioM 
reigned  for  a  time ;  but  at  length,  matters  were  settled 
oy  creating  a  dictator.  He  was  elected  only  for  six 
months.  The  dictator  armed  the  victors  with  axes,  and 
made  many  alterations  in  the  customs  as  well  as  the 
laws.  At  this  time,  new  officers,  called  tribunes,  were 
created.  They  were  elected  by  the  people,  and  their 
persons  were  sacred.  Their  duty  was  to  defend  the 
oppressed ;  to  arraign  the  enemies  of  the  people ;  to 
pardon  offences ;  and,  at  their  fiat,  to  stop  all  proceed- 
ings in  every  branch  of  the  government, — to  put,  as  it 
were,  their  hands  upop  the  heart  pulses  of  the  empire, 
and  stop  the  blood  from  flowing.  This  was  a  dangerous 
power,  for  their  hatred  to  the  patricians  often  made  them 
use  it  most  outrageously.  The  tribunes  demanded  two 
other  officers,  called  ediles,who  had  the  care  of  the  public 
buildings.  The  buildings  were  mostly  temples  of  the 
gods,  and  their  superintendence  was  nearly  connected 
«vith  religion  and  morals. 

The  aristocracy  were  proud  and  overbearing,  and  the 
lower  orders  ignorant  and  vindictive.  It  was  only  the 
intermediate  classes  that  made  Rome  great,  or  saved 
her  from  destruction,  and  these  found  it  difficult  to  re- 
strain the  senate,  or  pacify  the  rabble.  These  tribunes 
were  often  great  men,  but  could  not  always  do  what 
they  would  have  wished  to  have  done.  We  must  not 
take  Shakspeare's  representation  for  the  true  one.  He, 
probably,  had  some  design  in  making  them  vulgar  men: 
they  were  not  so.  In  491,  before  Christ,  the  tribunes 
and  the  people  banished  Coriolanus,  who  deserved  his 
fate  for  his  superciliousness. 

In  these  times  of  confusion,  a  patrician,  Spurius  Cas- 
sius  Viscillinu?,  aimed  at  sxTpreme  command.     He  was 


215 

the  first  who  proposed  aii  agrarian  law.  He  soon  fell 
a  victim  to  his  ambition. 

About  this  time,  the  tribimes  were  increased  to  ten. 
Hitherto  the  Romans  had  no  written  laws.  The  ordi- 
nances of  their  kings ;  the  decrees  of  the  senate ;  and 
their  customs  and  usages,  were  all  the  laws  they  had. 
They  sent  a  mission  to  Greece  to  get  the  laws  of  Solon. 
These  laws  were  Engraven  upon  twelve  tables  of  stone, 
and  hence  the  laws  of  the  tirclce  tables.  A  set  of  legal 
forms  were  soon  made,  and  something  like  a  system 
grew  out  of  them. 

The  Romans  getting  tired  of  the  consular  form, 
changed  it  to  a  worse  one,  by  establishing  the  decemvir, 
who  were  invested  whh  all  the  powers  of  government. 
Each  presided  for  a  day  ;  and  the  other  nine  were  en- 
gaged at  the  same  time  as  law  judges.  But  an  end  was 
put  to  the  decemvir  by  the  outrageous  conduct  of  Ap- 
pius  Claudius,  towards  the  daughter  of  Virginius.  la 
this,  soldiers,— for  Virginius  was  a  soldier  of  distinc- 
tion,—senate,  people  and  all,  joined  to  break  down  tliis 
ten  headed  monster  of  political  birth.  The  consular 
and  tribunition  government  were  again  restored.  This 
was  449  years  before  Christ.  The  people  made  another 
struggle,  which,  in  fact,  succeeded,  and  that  was  to  re- 
peal the  laws  prohibiting  marriages  between  the  patri- 
cians dnd  the  lower  orders,  and  preventing  these  orders 
froih  holding  any  hiah  office,  such  as  consul,  &c.  Tlie 
senate  struggled  hard,  but  repealed  the  first  law,  and 
then  got  rid  of  the  other  by  a  compromise  ;  such  as 
jnaking  six  military  tribunes, — three  of  patricians,  and 
three  from  the  plebeians,  instead  of  consuls. 

Tiie  people  ever  restless,  Iwcause  for  ever  oppressed, 
«oon  had  the  consuls  restorwl.     Two  new  magistrates 


216 

were  agreed  upon,  to  be  called  censors,  to  take  the  cen- 
sus of  the  people  every  five  years,  and  to  look  after  the 
morals  of  the  community.  But  this  was  an  aristocratic 
movement,  rather  to  know  where  to  look  for  recruits 
in  replenishing  their  armies,  than  for  any  moral  pur- 
poses. The  people  stood  out  against  these  censors  for 
a  while,  when  the  consuls  proposed  to  pay  the  soldiers 
for  their  services ;  for  down  to  this  period,  437  years 
before  Christ,  they  had  not  received  any  pay  as  sol- 
diers,— their  reward  was  a  share  of  their  plunder.  The 
people  were  quieted  by  this  prospect  of  wages,  but  the 
thing  was  not  done  without  resorting  to  a  dictator  for 
a  short  period.  But  the  soldiers  were  no  better  for 
being  paid,  for  not  long  after  this  period,  they  were 
beaten  by  the  Gauls,  and  Rome  was  plundered,  and 
burnt  to  the  ground.  The  Romans  showed  great  ener- 
gy in  building  their  city  again,  but  the  calamity  was 
felt  for  a  long  time.  The  Gauls  returned  rapacious 
from  a  taste  of  the  spoils  of  Romej  but  the  people 
who  had  labored  hard  to  build  the  city,  now  had  energy 
enough  to  defend  it.  In  367,  before  Christ,  or  about 
this  period,  a  plebeian  was  first  elected  consul,  and  the 
office  of  quaestor  was  created,  who  was  a  sort  of  mili- 
tary and  chancery  judge. 

Rome  had  found  it  for  her  advantage  to  be  at  peace 
heretofore  with  Carthage.  Their  intimacy  had  been 
great  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  years ;  an  alliance  had 
been  formed  which  had  never  been  dissolved.  In  273, 
before  Christ,  the  Romans  sought  cause  of  war  against 
the  Carthagenians, — it  was  a  mere  pretence ;  but  suffi- 
cient for  an  ambitious  people.  The  first  Punic  war  was 
severe,  and  the  Carthagenians  sued  for  peace ;  but  the 
proud  Romans  could  not  bear  to  see  the  prosperity  of 


217 

their  rival,  and  "  Delenda  est  Carthage,''  wus  a  com- 
mon cry  at  Rome.  In  218  before  Christ,  the  second 
Punic  war  began,  and  lastt^d  sixteen  years,  when  peace 
was  made  between  ihcm.  In  tliis  tlie  Komans  l)ad  the 
wo^^<t  of  it  in  many  battles.  The  tliird  Punic  war  be- 
gan 149  before  Christ,  and  ended  in  three  years  with 
the  destruction  of  Carthage. 

At  this  period,  Rome  conquered  Greece,  and  made 
that  once  free  country,  which  had  contended  agauist 
half  the  world,  a  Roman  province.  \Vithin  the  century 
then  last  past,  Rome  had  extiMided  her  coiKjucsts  mto 
Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa.  Riches  had  been  amassed, 
in  a  measure  before  unknown  in  Europe  or  Asia  ;  and 
its  usual  consequences,  luxury  and  dissipation,  followed 
in  their  train.  The  Gracchii  made  an  effort  to  bring 
back  the  people  to  temperance  and  industry,  but  in 
vain.  They  fell  in  the  struggle.  The  manly  virtues 
remained  in  the  breasts  of  a  few  only,  and  the  spirit  of 
patriotism  was  nearly  extinct.  The  senate  became  as 
corrupt  as  the  people  ;  and  their  judgment  in  favor  of 
Jugurtha,  was  as  indelible  a  stain  on  Roman  virtue  as 
the  conspiracy  of  Catiline,  in  a  subsequent  period. 

The  civil  wars  of  Marius  and  Sylla  shook  Rome  to 
its  centre.  Marius  was  a  plebeian,  and  Sylla  a  patrician, 
wliicli  embittered  their  rancor  towards  each  other  and 
their  Adherents.  Marius  was  the  greater  man,  in  point 
of  talents,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two 
was  the  greater  villain.  Marius  died  the  last,  but  neither 
lived  long  to  scourge  mankind  and  to  depopulate 
Rome.  Next  the  rivalry  of  Lepidusand  Pompey  kept 
the  city  in  e  state  of  agitation.  Catiline's  conspiracy 
happened  in  the  mean  time,  which  threateiuid  Rome 
with  Uestniction.  lie  was  r  most  consummate  traitor ; 
19' 


218 

and  the  name  oi"  Catiline  has  come  down  to  us  a  term 
for  all  that  is  great  in  villany,  reckless  and  daring,  in 
action,  and  deep  in  plot  and  stratagem. 

Then  Cajsar  arose,  the  loftiest  name  in  the  history  of 
military  chieftains, — learned,  eloquent,  brave,  generous, 
confiding,  and  ambitious.  He  became  master  of  Rome, 
was  made  consul,  dictator,  imperator,  and  might  have 
had  a  crown,  if  he  had  lived  a  little  longer.  He  was 
using  his  mighty  power  in  clemency  and  wisdom,  de- 
vising great  things  for  Rome, — to  give  to  the  eternal 
city  all  the  wisdom  and  glory  that  any  city  ever  en- 
joyed,— when  he  was  struck  dead  by  the  daggers  of  a 
numerous  band  of  conspirators;  who  paid,  in  the  end, 
for  their  perfidy.  His  eloquence  was  inferior  to  none 
but  Cicero's,  and  of  this  I  am  not  satisfied.  He  re- 
formed the  calendar  of  Rome,  and  restored  the  year  to 
its  true  state  by  the  equinoxes.  His  commentaries 
have  come  down  to  us  as  an  elegant  model  for  the  his- 
torian. They  arc  remarkable  for  neatness,  modesty, 
and  discrimination ;  they  are  productions  of  a  clear, 
lofty,  noble  mind ;  and  should  be  read  by  every  one 
who  loves  greatness  of  thought,  or  simplicity  of  style, 
united  to  dignity  and  elegance.  He  fell  forty-four 
years  before  the  Christian  era. 

Lepidus,  Anthony,  and  Augustus  Caesar,  then  formed 
a  triumvirate,  which  was  soon  destroyed,  and  Augus- 
tus was  made  the  first  emperor.  During  the  triumvir- 
ate, Cicero,  the  orator,  was  slain.  As  an  orator,  he  was 
considered  by  his  countrymen  as  having  no  rival  ;  and 
by  most  men  of  letters  since,  as  having  no  superior  on 
the  list  of  ancient  or  modern  orators.  The  produc- 
tions of  his  pen  are  great  in  number,  and  many  of 
them  of  considerable  extent.   For  depth  of  philosophy, 


219 

soundness  of  principle,  and  for  purity  and  copiousness 
of  language,  Cicero  stands  unrivalled  in  the  annals  of 
fine  ^Titers.  The  reign  of  Augustus  has  been  consi- 
dered an  age  of  letters,  poetry,  and  eloquence.  The 
emperor,  by  his  minister,  Mecaenas,  was  the  patron  of 
the  literati.  Virgil  and  Horace,  and  others  of  minor 
note,  were  drawn  to  his  court  by  the  amenity  of  his 
manners,  and  the  munificence  of  his  patronage.  His 
reign  was  a  splendid  one,  and  attracted  the  gaze  of  the 
world,  from  the  sources  of  the  Nile  to  the  ultima  thule 
of  the  ancients.  Augustus  was,  indeed,  munificent,  but 
he  wanted  the  great  soul  of  Ca;sar.  His  reign  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  Christian  dispensation. 

His  successor,  Tiberius,  had  but  few,  if  any,  good 
quaUties ;  and  Caligula,  who  was  the  third  emperor, 
was  most  infamous.  His  temper  was  diabolical,  and 
his  disposition  mean.  Claudius,  his  successor,  was 
weak  and  contemptible ;  but  Nero  was  formed  and  per- 
mitted to  exist,  to  be  the  concentration  of  every  mortal 
deformity  in  morals  and  conduct.  Rapine,  murder,  and 
incest,  were  with  him  but  daily  crimes.  He  was  not 
only  a  piece  of  moral  deformity,  but  one  of  the  most 
deceptive  character.  His  head  was  well  formed,  and 
his  countenance  had  a  touch  of  beauty  in  it,  and  was 
illumined  by  a  faint  smile,  that  gave  it  the  air  of  im- 
becility and  repose.  He  fired  Rome,  and  fiddled  while  it 
was  burning ;  he  sent  his  mother  to  execution,  and 
turned  to  his  ordinary  amusements,  killing  flies:  he 
sunk  in  blood,  and  Rome  breathed  more  freely  when 
he  was  gone. 

UndfT  the  following  emperors,  Rome  revived.  Ves- 
pasian had  many  good  qualities.  Trajan  and  Adrian 
were  excellent  men,  as  well  aa  good  emperors :  but  the 


220 

«vils  they  had  to  encounter  were  numerous,  for  the 
«eeds  of  the  dissolution  of  the  empire  were  deeply 
«own,  and  could  not  be  destroyed.  The  Antunines  did 
much  to  convey  away  the  wrath  of  offended  heaven, 
by  prudent  conduct,  and  mild  and  peaceable  demeanor, 
as  far  as  such  a  course  was  practicable  in  their  time. 
They  were  followed  by  Constantine,  the  first  emperor 
who  became  a  convert  to  Christianity. 

The  historians  of  Rome  were  not  numerous,  but  se- 
veral of  them  were  excellent  writers.  Livy  was  re* 
markable  for  sagacity,  candour,  and  learning.  His 
was  a  large  work,  but  out  of  a  hundred  and  forty- two 
books  only  twenty-five  have  come  down  to  us.  This 
is  much  to  be  regretted,  as  he  began  at  the  foundation 
of  Rome  and  closed  about  thirteen  years  before  Christ. 
The  remaining  books  are  a  proof  of  tow  much  has 
been  lost.  Livy  was  educated  after  Greece  became  a 
province  of  Rome,  and  the  learned  men  of  Greece  had 
migrated  to  the  great  city  as  the  instructers  of  Roman 
youth. 

Tacitus  was  an  historian,  orator,  and  statesman,  and 
his  style  proves  that  he  had  read  the  Greek  authors 
with  attention  and  admiration. 

Pliny  the  elder  was  one  of  the  most  learned  of  the 
philosophers  of  Rome.  He  fell  a  sacrifice  to  his  thirst 
Tor  knowledge  in  the  sulphurous  atmosphere  of  Vesu- 
vius, while  attempting  to  ascertain  the  causes  of  vol- 
canic eruptions.  He  left  "  a  Natural  History,"  in  thir- 
ty-seven books.  His  nephew,  Pliny  the  younger,  was 
a  splendid  advocate,  a  fine  epistolary  writer,  and  was 
called  to  pronounce  a  eulogy  on  Trajan  in  the  senate 
of  Rome,  which  was  admired  for  its  loftiness,  elegance, 
«nd  imperial  sj^endor.    Tlie  virtues  of  Trajan  were 


2->l 

embalmed  by  the  genius;  of  Pliny.  The  style  of  Ro- 
mtm  eloquence  was  then  changing,  and  he  was  among 
the  last  who  wrote  and  spoke  the  language  of  Cicero 
and  Julius  Ca??ar  with  taste  and  propriety  ;  and  even 
in  Pliny's  eloijuence,  some  marks  of  llie  affected  and 
overstrained  style  wliich  soon  followed  in  Konie,  may 
be  traced  out  in  his  productions.  Times  and  circum- 
stances control  fashion,  J»nd  fashion  enters  into  every 
thing  around  us.  The  simplicity  of  primitive  manners 
is  to  be  found  in  the  language  of  primitive  times;  and 
the  very  taste  and  luxuries  of  a  people  soon  become  in- 
corporated into  their  language.  AV'ordsof  agood,  strong, 
wholesome  meaning,  soon  become  harsh  and  offensive 
"  to  ears  polite."'  When  the  language  of  a  people  dete- 
riorates into  mincing  softness^  and  changes  a  direct  for 
an  evasive  phra.-?eology,  there  may  be  polished  man- 
ners and  much  courtesy  there,  but  little  of  the  true  spi- 
rit of  liberty  and  equality. 

In  the  Roman  history  we  find  much  to  admire  and 
much  to  imitate,  and  many  things  to  blame.  Their 
early  history  was  full  of  rudeness.  It  was  long  before 
they  liad  much  polish  among  them.  They  had  no 
lack  of  energy  in  their  early  days,  but  there  was  a 
touch  of  the  savage  in  them  for  many  years  after  they 
became  distinguished  among  the  nations.  For  more 
than  four  hundred  years  from  the  foundation  of  Rome 
they  had  not  made  many  advances  in  science  and  lite- 
rature. In  this  period  their  swords  were  more  trans- 
cendant  instruments  than  their  pens.  The  nature 
of  tlu-ir  [.'livcTmneiit  ki  pt  them  engaged  in  foreign 
wars  more  than  even  their  warlike  dispositions; 
for  the  moment  they  rested  from  the  fight  they  were 
engaged  iji  some  political  struggle  at  home.    It  was 


222 

the  policy  of  their  leaders  to  keep  some  great  object 
ahead,  that  the  collisions  between  the  patricians  and 
plebeians  should  not  burst  into  a  flame.  As  the  arch  of 
a  bridge  is  made  more  compact  by  a  proportionable 
weight,  so  were  they  more  secure  when  heavily  press- 
ed by  foreign  wars.  They  were,  generally  speaking, 
politic  in  their  treatment  of  the  nations  they  had  con- 
quered ;  certainly  they  were  more  lenient  than  any  of 
their  predecessors  after  they  had  met  their  foes  and 
conquered  them.  This  policy  made  the  conquered 
their  aUies  and  friends. 

Their  architecture,  for  many  years,  was  rather  a 
matter  of  their  ability  and  munificence,  than  of  their 
taste  and  genius. 

The  learned  and  scientific  Greeks  and  Lidonians  and 
the  Carthagenians,  were  taxed  by  the  Romans  for  the 
erecting  of  their  temples  and  their  navies,  sueh  as  they 
had.  Their  power  commanded,  and  their  pride  read- 
ily reconciled  them  to  ths  thought  of  using  all  the 
first  talents  of  all  the  first  nations  on  earth.  Military 
success  always  led  to  such  feelings,  and  always  will. 
It  is  in  human  nature.  The  Romans  had  a  self  consi- 
deration unknown  to  those  who  have  not  become  great 
by  conquest  over  others.  The  simple  thought  "  /  have 
been  in  battle;  I  have  fought ;  who  dares  to  say  aught 
against  my  valor  dies  ;^^  is  one  that  nurtures  the  pride 
of  man,  and  never  feels  any  thing  of  self  abasement. 
^^  I  was  born  free  as  Ccesar,  and  can  bear  the  winter'' s 
cold  as  well  as  he,"  is,  in  every  freeman's  breast.  But, 
in  Rome,  the  pride  of  arms  was  added  to  the  lofty 
bearings  of  freemen. 

Their  poets  and  their  philosophers  were  for  a  long 
time  imitators  of  the  Greeks.    Their  patricians  were 


[ 


223 

oflcn  too  concealed  and  too  vain  to  become  highly  in- 
tellectual ;  and  the  rabble  rout, — for  it  always  existed 
in  Rome, — were  too  debased  to  think  of  getting  infor- 
mation ;  while  those  who  possessed  it,  in  the  middling 
classes,  had  not  often  sufficient  influence  to  make  an 
effort  for  its  general  acquisition  fasliionable.  It  has 
been  regretted  by  many  good  patriots,  that  Rome 
should  have  changed  her  government,  and  have  fallen 
under  the  power  of  the  emperors;  and  then  have  lin- 
gered, and  Ungering  have  fallen.  With  such  I  have  no 
sympathies ;  for  my  own  part,  I  do  not  think  that  Rome 
fell  one  moment  "  ere  her  time?''  I  believe  that  changes 
in  empires  are  aa  necessary  to  the  ends  designed  by 
providence,  as  the  changes  of  seasons,  or  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  day  and  night.  While  this  mighty  colossus 
bestrode  the  globe,  the  sword  was  paramount;  the 
warrior  was  greater  than  the  philosopher ;  and  the 
military  chieftain  superior  to  the  slatesman  or  scholar. 
A  love  of  blood  had  gone  abroad,  and  man  was  verg- 
ing to  his  native  ferocity,  when  the  civilized  world,  by 
a  new  impulse,  grew  weary  of  battles,  and  left  Rome 
to  sink  by  her  own  weight.  The  lessons  of  war  are 
more  easily  acquired  by  barbarians  than  lessons  of 
taste  and  pliilosophy;  and  distant  nations,  who  had 
heard  of  Roman  fame,  began  to  emulate  her  ambition 
and  fiffTcct  her  prowess,  when  Roman  prowess  was 
falling  in  its  crest.  These  rude  nations  were,  in  the 
end,  destined  to  overthrow  the  proud  n)istrcss  of  the 
world,  and  commence  a  new  empire  on  the  ruins  of 
the  old. 

In  thi.s,  our  age  of  the  world,  the  lovers  of  science 
or  literature  owe  much  less  to  Rome  than  to  Greece; 
for  the  number  of  scholars  of  the  former  bear  but  a 


224 

small  proportion  to  those  of  the  latter,  and  with  a  few 
exceptions,  are  not  equal  in  taste  or  genius  to  their 
masters.  To  Rome  we  have  no  power  to  show  our 
gratitude.  The  Romans  no  longer  exist — they  have 
been  merged  in  new  born  nations.  What  Caesar  wrote 
and  TuUy  spoke,  is  no  longer  a  living  language.  But 
Greece,  buried  and  resuscitated ;  oppressed,  degraded, 
delivered,  elevated,  and  now  speaking  aloud  to  all  the 
sympathies  of  our  best  natures,  is  receiving  our  grati- 
tude, which  we  are  happy  to  bestow,  and  she  delighted 
to  receive.  Our  scholars  are  in  Greece,  pouring  over 
her  ancient  monuments,  encouraging  her  in  the  cause 
of  freedom,  kneeling  with  her  at  the  altar  of  a  true 
God, — whom  ancient  Greece  never  knew, — offering 
prayers  for  her  deliverance,  and  uttering  vows  for  her 
protection.  Some  of  the  most  aspiring  geniuses  of 
Greece  are  found  in  this  country,  learning  our  customs, 
manners,  and  methods  of  thinking  and  acting,  and 
studying  our  constitutions  and  laws,  to  carry  back  to 
their  own  country  whatever  may  be  useful  of  our  insti- 
tutions, to  assist  in  the  great  cause  of  their  resuscitation. 
Their  language  is  nearly  the  same  as  that  spoken  at 
Athens  by  Pericles,  and  the  elements  of  the  people  as 
mercurial  as  when  they  fought  at  Thermopylse  and 
Marathon.  They  have  been  trampled  upon  and  de- 
graded for  centuries.  The  Ottoman  lash  has  whipped 
them  to  the  bone,  and  the  Turkish  sceptre  ground  them 
to  the  dust;  but  heaven  had  decreed  that  they  should 
suffer  all,  and  not  be  destroyed,  that  they  should  spring 
up  again  to  light  and  life— throw  off  the  yoke  of  sla- 
very— invoke  the  spirit  of  freedom — strike  their  op- 
pressors to  the  heart — and  peal  a  hymn  to  liberty, 
where  Demosthenes  fulminated  and  Pindar  sung.    The 


225 

ruins  of  the  Parthenon  may  yet  survive  the  crescent ; 
and  the  Pliccnix-banner  of  Attica  float  in  tlie  breeze  of 
freedom,  when  the  standard  of  Mahomet  shall  be  rent 
by  the  blast  and  scattered  by  the  winds  of  heayen. 
They  fought — they  bled — they  cried  in  agony  for  suc- 
cor— and  the  decree  for  their  deliverance  went  forth 
from  the  God  of  armies.    Let  the  nations  cry — amen  ' 

But  to  be  more  particular  with  some  of  the  learned 
men  of  that  age.  Lucretius  and  Catullus,  the  poets, 
lived  with  Cicero,  the  orator,  who  wiis  their  friend  and 
patron.  Lucretius  was  a  philosophical  poet,  and  ex- 
plained, as  far  as  he  was  able,  the  atomic  system  of 
Epicurus.  He  had  a  fine  command  of  language,  and 
reasoned  with  great  strength  upon  absurd  principles. 
Catullus,  with  tenderness  and  passion,  had  delicacy 
and  strength.  They  must  have  been  men  of  learning 
and  genius  to  have  secured  the  friendship  of  such  men 
as  Cicero  and  Julius  Caesar. 

The  successors  of  these  poets,  Virgil  and  Horace, 
were  their  superiors  in  genius  and  taste.  Virgil  read 
and  imitated  Homer  constantly,  and  in  his  great  epic, 
the  yEneiad,  he  does  not  seem  to  wish  to  hide  his  imi- 
tations. The  poems  of  Virgil,  which  have  been  consi- 
dered minor  ones,  have  more  nature,  genius,  and  ori- 
ginality, than  are  to  be  found  in  his  epic.  Care,  pa- 
tience, taste,  were  the  characteristics  of  his  muse; 
intense  labor  is  seen  in  every  line  of  his  writings. 
They  have  been  studied  as  a  classic  ever  since  the  revi- 
val of  learning,  and,  probably,  will  hold  their  place  as 
long  as  classical  learning  is  made  a  study  in  any 
country. 


20 


226 
PASTORAL  I. 

OR, 

Tityrus  and  Mdihaus. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  occasion  of  the  first  pastoral  was  this.  When  Augustus  had  settled  him- 
self in  the  Roman  empire,  that  he  might  reward  his  veteran  troops  for  their 
past  service,  he  distributed  among  them  all  the  lands  that  lay  about  Cremo- 
na and  Mantua ;  turning  out  the  riglit  awners  for  having  sided  with  his  en- 
emies. Virgil  was  a  sufferer  among  the  rest ;  who  afterwards  recovered 
his  estate  by  Maecenas's  intercession,  and,  as  an  instance  of  his  gratitude, 
composed  the  foUdWing  pastoral,  where  he  sets  out  his  own  good  fortune  in 
the  person  of  Tityrus,  and  the  calamities  of  his  Mantuan  neighbours  In  the 
character  of  Meliboeus. 


M£UB<EDS. 

Beneath  the  shade  which  beechen  boughs  diffuse, 
You,  Tityrus,  entertain  your  sylvan  muse, 
Round  the  wide  world  in  banishment  we  roam, 
Forc'^d  from  our  pleasing  fields  and  native  home ; 
"While,  streteh'd  at  ease,  you  sing  your  happy  loves, 
And  Amaryllis  fills  the  shady  groves. 


These  blessings,  friend,  a  deity  bestow'd ; 
For  never  can^  I  deem  him  less  than  God. 
The  tender  firstlings  of  my  woolly  breed 
Shall  on  his  holy  altar  often  bleed. 
He  gave  me  kine  to  graze  the  flow'ry  plain, 
A.nd  to  my  pipe  renew'd  the  rural  strain. 


227 


MELIBCEDS. 


I  envy  not  your  fortune  but  admire, 

Tliat,  ^.  hile  the  raging  sword  and  wasteful  fire 

Destroy  the  wTctched  neighbourhood  around, 

No  hostile  arms  approaeli  your  happy  ground. 

Far  diff 'rent  is  my  fate :  my  feeble  goats 

With  pains  I  drive  from  their  forsaken  cotes. 

And  this,  you  see,  I  scarcely  drag  along, 

Who,  yeaning,  on  the  rocks  has  left  lier  young ; 

The  hope  and  promise  of  my  falling  fold. 

My  loss,  by  dire  portents  the  gods  foretold  ; 

For,  had  I  not  been  blind,  I  might  have  seen:— 

Yon  riven  oak,  the  fairest  of  the  green. 

And  the  hoarse  raven,  on  the  blasted  bough. 

By  croaking  from  the  left,  presaged  the  coming  blow, 

But  tell  me,  Tilyrus,  what  heavenly  pow'r 

Preserv'd  your  fortune  in  that  fatal  hour? 

TITYRDS. 

Fool  thsrt  I  wa-s,  I  thought  imperial  Rome 
Like  Mantua,  where  on  market  days  we  come, 
And  thither  drive  our  tender  lambs  from  Iiome. 
So  kids  and  whelps  their  sires  and  dams  express; 
And  so  the  great  I  measur'd  by  the  less. 
But  country  Ujwns,  compar'd  with  her,  appear 
Like  shrubs,  when  lofty  cypresses  are  near. 

MELIBffiCS. 

What  great  occasion  call'd  you  hence  to  Rome? 

TITYRUS. 

Freedom,  which  came  at  length,  tho'  slow  to  come. 

Nor  (lid  my  search  of  liberty  begin, 

Till  my  black  hairs  were  changed  upon  my  chin ; 


228 

Nor  Amaryllis  would  vouchsafe  a  look, 
Till  Galatea's  meaner  bonds  I  broke. 
Till  then  a  helpless,  hopeless,  homely  swain, 
I  sought  not  freedom,  nor  aspired  to  gain  : 
Though  many  a  victim  from  my  folds  was  bought, 
And  many  a  cheese  to  country  markets  brought, 
Yet  all  the  httle  that  I  got,  I  spent, 
And  still  returned  as  empty  as  I  went. 

MEUBCEUS. 

We  stood  amazed  to  see  your  mistress  mourn. 
Unknowing  that  she  pin'd  for  your  return  : 
We  wonder'd  why  she  kept  her  fruit  so  long, 
For  whom  so  late  th'  ungather'd  apples  hung. 
But  now  the  wonder  ceases,  since  I  see 
She  kept  them  only,  Tityrus,  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  bubbling  springs  appear'd  to  mourn. 
And  whisp'ring  pines  made  vows  for  thy  return. 

TITYRUS. 

What  should  I  do  ?— While  here  I  was  enchain'd. 

No  glimpse  of  godlike  liberty  remain'd  ; 

Nor  could' I  hope,  in  any  place  but  there, 

To  find  a  god  so  present  to  my  pray'r. 

There  first  the  youth  of  heavenly  birth  I  viewM, 

For  whom  our  monthly  victims  are  renew'd. 

He  heard  my  vows,  and  graciously  decreed, 

My  grounds  to  be  restor'd,  my  former  flocks  to  feed. 


O  fortunate  old  man !  whose  farm  remains — 
For  you  sufficient — and  requites  your  pains; 
Though  rushes  overspread  the  neighb'ring  plains. 


229 

Tliough  here  the  marshy  grounds  approach  your  fields, 

And  there  the  soil  a  stony  harvest  yields. 

Your  leuming  ewes  shall  no  strange  meadows  try, 

Nor  I'ear  a  rot  from  tamled  company. 

Behold !  you  bord'nng  fence  of  sallow  trees 

[s  fraught  with  flow'rs,  the  flow'rs  are  fraught  with  bees, 

The  busy  bees,  with  a  soft  murmuring  strain, 

Invite  to  gentle  sleep  the  lab'ring  swain. 

AMiile,  from  the  neighbTing  rock,  with  rural  songs, 

The  pruner's  voice  the  pleasing  dream  prolongs, 

Stock-doves  and  turtles  tell  their  ara'rous  pain, 

And  from  the  lofty  elms,  of  love  complain. 


Th'  inhabitants  of  seas  and  skies  shall  change, 
And  fish  on  t>hore,  and  stags  in  air,  sludl  range, 
The  banisli'd  Parthian  dwell  on  Arar's  brink, 
And  the  blue  German  shall  the  Tigris  drink, 
Ere  I,  forsaking  gratitude  and  truth. 
Forget  the  figure  of  that  godlike  youth. 

BIELIBCEUS. 

But  we  must  beg  our  bread  in  climes  unknown, 
IJeneath  the  scorching  or  the  freezing  zone: 
And  some  to  far  Oaxis  shall  be  sold. 
Or  try  the  Lybkin  heat,  or  Scythian  cold; 
The  rent  among  the  Britons  be  confin'd  ; 
A  race  of  men,  from  all  the  world  disjoin'd. 
()!  must  the  wretched  exiles  ever  mourn, 
Nor,  after  length  of  rolling  years  return'? 
Are  we  condemn'd  by  fate's  unjust  decree, 
No  more  our  houses  and  our  homes  to  see? 
20* 


230 

Or  shall  we  mount  again  the  rural  throne, 

And  rule  the  country  kingdoms  once  our  own  j 

Did  we  for  these  barbarians  plant  and  sow  ? 

On  these,  on  these,  our  happy  fields  bestow  ? 

Good  heaven !  what  dire  effects  from  civil  discord  flow  I 

Now  let  me  graft  my  pears,  and  prune  the  vine  j 

The  fruit  is  theirs,  the  labor  only  mine. 

Farewell,  my  pastures,  my  paternal  stock, 

My  fruitful  fields,  and  my  more  fruitful  flock ! 

No  more,  my  goats,  shall  I  behold  you  climb 

The  steepy  cliffs,  or  crop  the  flow'ry  thyme ! 

No  more  extended  in  the  grot  below, 

Shall  see  you  browsing  on  the  mountain's  brow 

The  prickly  shrubs ;  and  after  on  the  bare. 

Leap  down  the  deep  abyss,  and  hang  in  air. 

No  more  my  sheep  shall  sip  the  morning  dew ; 

No  more  my  song  shall  please  the  rural  crew ; 

Adieu  ray  tuneful  pipe !  and  all  the  world,  adieu ! 


This  night,  at  least,  with  me  forget  your  care, 
•Chestnuts,  and  curds  and  cream  shall  be  your  fare ; 
The  carpet-ground  shall  be  with  leaves  o'erspread ; 
And  boughs  shall  weave  a  cov'ring  for  your  head. 
For  see,  yon  sunny  hill  the  shade  extends ; 
And  curling  smoke  from  cottages  ascends. 


231 
PASTORAL  IV. 

OR, 

PoUio. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  poet  celebrates  the  birthday  of  &Uoninus,  the  son  of  PolUo,  bom  In  the 
consulship  of  his  father,  afler  the  taking  of  Saloa>n,  a  city  in  Dalmatia. 
Many  of  tlie  verses  are  tianslaieJ  from  one  of  the  Sibyls,  who  prophesied 
of  our  Saviour's  birth. 


Sicilian  muse,  begin  a  loftier  strain  ! 

Tho'  lowly  shrubs,  and  trees  that  shade  the  plain, 

Delight  not  all ;  Sicilian  muse,  prepare 

To  make  the  vocal  woods  deserve  a  consul's  care. 

The  last  great  age,  foretold  by  sacred  rhypies, 

Renews  its  finish'd  course  :  Saturnian  times 

Roll  round  again  ;  and  mighty  years,  begun 

From  their  first  orb  in  radiant  circles  run. 

The  tase  degen'rate  iron  offspring  ends ; 

A  golden  progeny  from  heaven  descends. 

O  chaste  Lucina!  speed  the  mother's  pains  ; 

And  haste  the  glorious  birth  !  thy  own  Apollo  reigns  ! 

The  lovely  boy,  with  his  auspicious  face, 

Shall  PoUio's  consulship  and  triumph  grace: 

Majestic  months  set  out  (with  him)  to  their  appointed 

race. 
The  father  banish'd  virtue  shall  restore  ; 
And  crimes  shall  threat  the  guilty  world  no  more. 


232 

The  son  shall  lead  the  life  of  gods,  and  be 
By  gods  and  heroes  seen,  and  gods  and  heroes  see. 
The  jarring  nations  he  in  peace  shall  bind, 
And  with  paternal  virtues  rule  mankind. 
Unbidden  earth  shall  wreathing  ivy  bring, 
-And  fragrant  herbs  (the  promises  of  spring,) 
As  her  first  off 'rings  to  her  infant  king, 
The  goats  with  strutting  dogs  shall  homeward  speed, 
And  lowing  herds  secure  from  lions  feed. 
His  cradle  shall  with  rising  flow'rs  be  cro^vn'd : 
The  serpent's  brood  shall  die :  the  sacred  ground 
Shall  weeds  and  pois'nous  plants  refuse  to  bear : 
Each  common  bush  shall  Syrian  roses  wear. 
But  when  heroic  verse  his  youth  shall  raise, 
And  form  it  to  hereditary  praise, 
Unlabor'd  harvests  shall  the  fields  adorn. 
And  cluster'd  grapes  shall  bhish  on  every  thorn; 
The  knotted  oaks  shall  showers  of  honey  weep  ; 
And  thro'  the  matted  grass  the  liquid. gold  shall  creep, 
Yet,  of  old  fraud  some  footsteps  shall  remain : 
The  merchant  still  shall  plough  the  deep  for  gain : 
Great  cities  shall  with  walls  be  compass'd  round ; 
And  sharpen'd  shares  shall  vex  the  fruitful  ground ; 
Another  Typhis  shall  new  seas  explore  ; 
Another  Argo  land  the  chiefs  upon  th'  Iberian  shore ; 
Another  Helen  other  wars  create, 
And  great  Achilles  urge  the  Trojan  fate. 
But,  when  to  ripen'd  manhood  he  shall  grow. 
The  greedy  sailor  shall  the  seas  forego : 
No  keel  shall  cut  the  waves  for  foreign  ware ; 
For  every  soil  shall  every  product  bear. 
The  lab'ring  hind  his  oxen  shall  disjoin : 
No  plough  shall  hurt  the  glebe,  no  pruning-hook  the  vine; 


233 

Nor  wool  shall  in  dissembled  color  shine 

But  the  luxurious  father  ul"  the  fold, 

\Vith  native  purple,  aud  uuborrow'd  gold, 

Beneath  his  pompous  ileece  sh;\ll  proudly  sweat ; 

And  under  Tyrian  robes  the  lamb  shall  bleat. 

The  Fates,  when  they  tliis  happy  web  have  spuit, 

Shall  bless  the  sacred  clue,  and  bid  it  smoothly  run. 

Mature  in  years,  to  ready  hoiwrs  move, 

O,  of  celestial  seed  !  O,  foster-son  of  Jove  ! 

See,  lab'ring  Nature  calls  thee  to  sustain 

The  nodding  frame  of  heav'n,  and  earth,  and  main! 

See  to  their  base  restor'd,  earth,  seas,  and  air  ; 

And  joyful  ages,  from  behind,  in  crowding  ranks  appear. 

To  sing  thy  praise,  would  heav'n  my  breath  prolong, 

Infusing  spirits  worthy  such  a  song, 

Not  Thracian  Oqiheus  should  transcend  my  lays, 

Nor  Linus  crown'd  with  never  fading  bays  ; 

Though  each  his  heav'nly  parent  should  inspire ; 

The  miisp  instruct  the  voice,  and  Phccbus  tune  the  lyre. 

Should  Pan  f.imtend  in  verse,  and  thou  my  theme, 

Arcadian  judges  should  their  god  condemn- .. 

Begin,  auspicious  boy  !  to  cast  about 

Thy  infant  eyes,  and  with  a  smile  thy  mother  single 

out. 
Tliy  mother  well  deserves  tliat  short  delight. 
The  naaseous  qualms  of  ten  long  montlis  and  travail 

to  requite. 
Then  smile !  the  frowning  infant's  doom  is  read: 
No  god  shall  crown  the  board,  nor  goddess  bless  the  bed. 

The  writings  of  Horace,  althougli  not  read  cis  nnich 
by  scholars  in  this  country  as  those  of  Virgil,  are 
marked  with  a.s  niucli  genius  and  a  deeper  knowledge 


234 

of  the  affairs  of  the  world.  He  was  educated  in  part 
at  Athens,  and  imbibed  all  the  sweets  of  that  attic  hive. 
He  spent  his  days  in  literai*y  ease,  and  associated  with 
men  in  the  first  rank  in  Rome,  from  Augustus  to  the 
orators  and  poets  around  him. 

"  In  the  person  of  Horace  there  was  nothing  charac- 
teristic of  the  Roman.  He  was  below  the  middle  size, 
and  extremely  corpulent.  Augustus  compares  him,  in 
a  letter,  to  the  book  which  he  sent  him — a  little  thick 
volume.  He  was  grey-haired  at  a  very  early  age,  and 
luxurious  living  by  no  means  agreed  with  his  constitu- 
tion ;  yet  he  constantly  associated  with  the  greatest 
men  in  Rome,  and  frequented  the  table  of  his  illustri- 
ous patrons  as  if  he  were  in  his  own  house.  The  em- 
peror, whilst  sitting  at  his  meals  with  Virgil  at  his  right 
hand  and  Horace  at  his  left,  often  ridiculed  the  short 
breath  of  the  former,  and  the  watery  eyes  of  the  latter, 
by  observing  that '  he  sat  between  tears  and  sighs.'  In 
early  life  Horace  spfims  to  liavR  been  a  disciple  of  Epi- 
curus, and  a  professor  of  the  doctrine  of  chance  in  the 
formation  of  things ;  but  in  Ode  xxxiv.  book  i.  we  find 
him  abjuring  this  system  of  philosophy,  and  embrac- 
ing that  of  stoicism  ;  mentioning  as  one  great,  though 
apparently  unreasonable  motive  for  recantation,  that  it 
thundered  and  lightened  in  a  pure  sky,  which  was  a 
phoenomenon  not  to  be  accounted  for  on  natural  prin- 
ciples, and,  consequently,  an  irresistible  argument  in 
support  of  an  over-ruling  Providence. 

"  Horace  has  been,  of  all  others,  the  poet  for  quota- 
tion, and  the  companion  of  the  classical  scholar.  His 
Odes  are  indisputably  the  best  models  of  that  kind  of 
composition  in  the  Latin  language;  for  when  many 
others  were  extant,  Quintilian  pronounced  him  '  almost 


235 

tlie  only  one  of  ihe  lyric  poets  worthy  of  being  read.' 
It  lias  been  well  observed  of  him,  that  he  has  given  to 
a  rough  language  the  tender  and  delicate  modulation  of 
the  eastern  song.  His  odes  are  pathetic,  hcruic,  and 
amatory.  The  seventeenth  of  the  second  book,  writ- 
ten during  the  last  illness  of  Maecenas,  is  of  ihe  first 
kind;  it  possesses  all  that  variety  of  sentiment  and  feli- 
city of  expression  in  which  he  is  so  eminently  superior 
to  his  great  Thcban  competitor.  Of  the  heroic,  one  of 
the  most  celebrated  is  that  to  Fortune,  (Ode  xxxv. 
book  i.)  wherein  he  invokes  her  with  the  most  insinuat- 
ing grace,  and  recommends  Augustus  and  the  Romans 
to  her  care.  The  amatory  odes  of  tliis  inestimable 
poet  evince  the  polished  and  delicate  taste  of  which  he 
■was  so  eminently  possessed  ;  they  contain  the  refine- 
ment and  softness  of  Sappho,  combined  with  the  spirit 
and  elegance  of  Anacreon.  In  his  ode  to  Pyrrha, 
there  is  a  mixture  of  sweetness  and  reproach,  of  praise 
and  satire,  uniformly  pleasing  in  all  languages ;  and 
which  Scaliger  calls  the  purest  nectar.  Horace  can 
equally  inflame  the  mind  by  his  enthusiasm,  and  calm 
it  by  his  philosophy.  Where  shall  we  see  in  an  unin- 
spired writer,  better  consolation  for  poverty,  or  stronger 
arguments  for  contentment,  than  are  contained  in  his 
admirable  ode  to  Dellius?  And  his  hymn  to  the  praise 
of  the  gods  and  of  illustrious  men,  may  claim  the  palm, 
when  put  in  competition  with  the  finest  compositions 
of  his  (irecian  predecessors. 

"Tlie  satires  and  epistles  of  Horace  are  full  of  mo- 
rality and  good  sense.  In  the  first  book  of  the  satires 
it  is  hi.s  obvious  endeavour  to  eradicate  vice  ;  and  in  the 
second,  to  dispel  those  prejudices  which  infest  the  hu- 
man mind.     The  epLstles  are  an  appendix  to  the  satires  j 


236 

they  not  only  exhibit  a  forcible  style  of  writing,  but 
contain  a  valuable  system  of  ethics.  Socrates  refuted 
before  he  taught,  observing, '  that  the  ground  ought  first 
to  be  cleared  from  weeds,  before  it  be  sown  with  corn.' 
The  satires  are  the  purifiers  of  passion,  and  the  epistles 
are  the  lessons  of  virtue  to  fill  up  the  vacancies  in  the 
mind.  In  the  epistles  he  steps  forward  as  a  vindicator 
of  morality ;  and,  warm  in  its  cause,  gives  way  to  all 
the  strength  and  vigor  of  his  genius.  His  sentiments 
are  manly  and  elevated,  and  his  verse  suitable  to  his 
thoughts,  powerful  and  sublime.  The  Curiosa  Feli- 
citas  of  Horace  has  become,  as  it  were,  proverbial 
among  the  sons  of  genius ;  and  his  name  will  continue 
to  be  held  in  universal  veneration,  until  the  Goths  of 
ignorance  shall  diffuse  a  second  darkness  over  the  civil  ~ 
ized  world." 


ODE  TO  LOLLIUS. 

While  with  the  Grecian  bards  I  vie, 

And  raptur'd  tune  the  social  string. 
Think  not  the  song  shall  ever  die. 
Which  with  no  vulgar  art  I  sing, 
Though  born  where  Aufid  rolls  his  sounding  stream, 
In  lands  far  distant  from  poetic  fame. 

What  though  the  muse  her  Homer  thrones 

High  above  all  th'  immortal  choir, 
Nor  Pindar's  rapture  she  disowns, 
Nor  hides  the  plaintive  Caean  lyre : 
Alcaeus  strilces  the  tyrant's  soul  with  dread, 
Nor  yet  is  grave  Stesichorus  unread. 


237 

Whatever,  of  old,  Anacreon  sung, 

However  tender  was  the  lay, 
In  spite  of  time  is  ever  young, 
Nor  Sappho's  amorous  flames  decay ; 
Her  living  songs  preserve  their  charming  art, 
Her  love  still  breathes  the  passions  of  her  heart. 

Helen  was  not  the  only  fair 

By  an  unhappy  passion  fir'd, 
VTho  the  lewd  ringlets  of  the  hair 
Of  an  adulterous  youth*  admir'd  ; 
For  splendid  vests,!  and  royal  grace,  have  charms 
To  tempt  weak  woman  to  a  stranger's  arms. 

Nor  first  from  Teucer's  vengeful  bow 
The  feather'd  death  unerring  flew, 
Nor  was  the  Greek  the  single  foe, 
Whose  rage  ill-fated  Ilion  knew ; 
Greece  had  with  heroes  fili'd  th'  embattled  plain, 
Worthy  the  muse  in  her  subliniest  strain. 

Nor  Hector  first  transported  heard 
With  ficrce  delight  the  war's  alarms, 
•   Nor  brave  Deiphobus  appear'd 
Ahiid  the  tented  field  in  arms, 


■  Youih.)    Francis  has  beau,  which  socms  the  utmost  depth  of  the  Hathos. 

■  l)acler  makc«  Uie  folloulng  remark  on  ihl.s  p;issa§ci  "It  was  not 
annatural,  that,  the  masnlf.cciice  of  an  Aslaric  prince  should  strike  with 
wonder  a  prlnotM  of  Laoe<la-mon,  whose  people  were  fducalcd  In  the  slin- 
plirtly  of  the  flrrt  ages."  'WUro  did  the  critic  ilisciiver  tliat  the  Asiatic 
Tfjan*  were  more  inafrnlficent  than  tJie  rluropean  Greeks  ;  or  UuU  the  fjiar- 
laju  »-?rc  othcrwiae  eJucaUsl  than  the  other  Greeks,  before  Oiu  time  of  Ly- 
eurtoBt 

Ttie  iplcndld  drcM  and  armour  of  Menelaiu  are  particularly  meniioned  by 
Homer,  nud  I  v.  rer.  laa. 

21 


238 

With  glorious  ardor  prodigal  of  life, 
To  guard  a  darling  son,  and  faithful  wife. 

Before  great  Agamemnon  reign'd, 

Reign'd  kings  as  great  as  he,  and  brave, 
Whose  huge  ambition's  now  contain'd 
In  the  small  compass  of  a  grave  ; 
In  endless  night  they  sleep,  unwept,  unknown. 
No  bard  had  they  to  make  all  time  their  own. 

In  earth  if  it  forgotten  lies, 

What  is  the  valor  of  the  brave  ? 
Wliat  ditiereuce,  when  the  coward  dies. 
And  smks  in  silence  to  his  grave  ? 
Nor,  Lollius,  will  I  not  thy  praise  proclaim, 
But  from  oblivion  vindicate  tliy  fame. 

Nor  sliall  its  livid  power  conceal 

Thy  toils — how  glorious  to  the  state  ! 
How  constant  to  the  public  weal 

Throiigii  all  the  doubtful  turns  of  Fate  ! 
Thy  steady  soul,  by  long  experience  found 
Erect  alike,  Mdien  fortune  smii'd  or  frown'd. 

Villains,  in  public  rapine  bold, 

Lollius,  the  just  avenger,  dread, 
Who  never  by  the  charms  of  gold, 
Siiining  seducer !  was  misled  ; 
Beyond  thy  year  such  virtue  shall  extend, 
And  death  alone  thy  consulate  shall  end. 

Perpetual  magistrate  is  he. 
Who  keeps  strict  justice  full  in  sight; 


239 

"With  scorn  rejects  tli'  offender's  fee. 
Nor  weighs  convenience  aguinsi  right ; 
Who  bids  tlie  crowd  at  awful  distance  gaze, 
And  virtue's  arms  victoriously  disphiys. 

Not  he,  of  wealth  immense  possessM, 
Tasteless  who  piles  his  massy  gold, 
Among  tile  number  of  the  bjess'd 

Should  have  his  glorious  name  enroll'd  ; 
He  better  claims  tiie  glorious  nauve  wlio  Unows 
Willi  wisdom  to  enjoy  what  heaven  bestows: 

"VMio  knows  the  wrongs  of  want  to  bear, 

Even  in  its  lowest,  last  extreme  ; 
Yet  can  with  conscious  virtue  fear, 

Far  worse  than  death,  a  deed /if  shame; 
Undaunted,  for  his  country  or  his  friend, 
To  sacrifice  his  life — O  glorious  end ! 


ODE  TO  MAECENAS. 

Descended  from  an  ancient  line, 

That  once  the  Tuscmi  scciilre  swiy' ", 

Ha:?te  thee  to  meet  the  generous  wme, 
A'^'hosc  piercing  is  for  thee  delay 'r  ; 

For  thee  tlic  fraizrant  esscm-e  (lows, 
For  thee,  Majcenas,  breathes  the  blooming  rose. 

From  tlie  delights,  oh  !  break  away, 
Which  Tiler's  marshy  prospect  yields, 

Nor  with  nnecasing  joy  survey 
Fair  ^^sula's  declining  fields  ; 


240 

•^  No  more  the  verdant  hills  admire 
Of  Telegon,  who  kill'd  his  aged  sire. 

Instant  forsake  the  joyless  feast, 

Wliere  appetite  in  surfeit  dies, 
And  from  the  towered  structure  haste, 

That  proudly  threatens  to  the  skies ; 
From  Rome  and  its  tumultuous  joys, 
Its  crowds,  and  smoke,  and  opulence,  and  noise. 

To  frugal  treats,  and  humble  cells, 
With  grateful  change  the  wealthy  fly, 

Where  health-preserving  plainness  dwells, 
Far  from  the  carpet's  gaudy  dye. 

Such  scenes  have  charm'd  the  pangs  of  care, 
And  smooth'd  the  clouded  forehead  of  despair. 

Andromeda's  conspicuous  sire. 
Now  darts  his  hidden  beams  from  far  j 

The  lion  shows  his  maddenmg  nre. 
And  barks  fierce  Procyon's  raging  star ; 

While  Phoebus  with  revolving  ray, 
Brings  back  the  burnings  of  the  thirsty  day. 

Fainting  beneath  the  sweltering  heat. 
To  cooling  streams  and  breezy  shades 

The  shepherd  and  his  flocks  retreat. 
While  rustic  sylvans  seek  the  glades  j 

Silent  the  brook  its  borders  laves. 
Nor  curls  one  vagrant  breath  of  wind  the  waves. 

But  you  for  Rome's  imperial  state 
Attend  with  ever-watchful  care, 


341 

Or,  for  the  world's  uncertain  fate 

Alarm'il,  with  ceaseless  urrors  fear: 
Anxious  wlmt  eastern  wars  iiupead, 
Or  what  the  Scylliiaus  iu  their  pride  intend. 

But  Jove,  in  goodness  ever  wise, 

Hath  liid,  in  clouds  of  dcpthlcss  night, 

All  tliat  in  future  prospect  lies. 
Beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  siglit; 

And  laughs  to  see  vain  man  oppress'd 
\Vith  idle  fears,  and  more  than  man  dislrcss'd. 

Then  wisely  form  the  present  liour ; 

Enjoy  the  bhss  which  it  bestows ;  • 

The  rest  is  all  beyond  our  power, 

And  like  the  changeful  Tiber*  flows. 
AMio  now  beneath  his  banks  subsides. 
And  peaceful  to  his  native  ocean  glides: 

But  when  descends  a  sudden  shower, 

And  wild  provokes  his  silent  flood, 
The  mountains  hear  the  torrent  roar, 

And  echoes  shake  tlie  neighboring  wood; 
Then,  swollen  with  rage,  he  sweeps  away 
Upr6oted  trees,  herds,  dwellings,  to  the  sea. 

Happy  the  man,  and  he  alone 

Who,  master  of  himself,  can  say — 
To  day  at  least,  hath  been  my  own, 

*  TOer.]  Theie  •ecounts  of  this  river  are  preally  cxacccratcil,  unless  the 
rtrw  ha*  decnMed  m  much  as  Rome.  Tlie  chief  glory  of  Ute  Tlltcr  now,  to 
as«  Jhc  words  of  Whitehead,  Is,  Ihat 

"  Its  waves  have  flowM  thrniish  L-itlan  UuidJ, 

Have  wash'il  the  walls  of  Rome." 

21* 


242 

For  I  have  clearly  liv'd  to-day : 
Then  let  to-morrow's  clouds  arise, 
Or  purer  suns  o'erspread  the  cheerful  skies. 

Not  Jove  himself  can  now  make  void 
The  joy,  that  wing'd  the  flying  hour ; 

The  certain  blessing  once  enjoy'd. 
Is  safe  beyond  the  godhead's  power ; 

Nought  can  recal  the  acted  scene ; 
What  hath  been,  spite  of  Jove  himself,  hath  been. 

But  Fortune,  ever-changing  dame, 

Indulges  her  malicious  joy. 
And  constant  plays  her  haughty  game, 

Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy ; 
To-day  to  me  her  bounty  flows, 

And  now  on  others  she  the  bliss  bestows. 


I.  can  applaud  her  while  she  stays. 
But  if  she  shake  her  rapid  wings, 

I  can  resign  with  careless  ease, 
The  richest  gifts  her  favor  brings, 

Then  folded  lie  in  virtue's  arms, 
And  honest  poverty's  undower'd  charms. 

Though  the  mast  howl  beneath  the  wind, 
I  make  no  mercenary  prayers; 

Nor  with  the  gods  a  bargain  bind 
With  future  vows,  and  streaming  tears, 

To  save  my  wealth  from  adding  more 
To  boundless  ocean's  avaricious  store. 


243 

Then  in  my  little  barge  I'll  ride, 

Secure  ajnid  the  foamy  wave; 
Calm  will  1  stem  the  threatening  tide, 

And  fearless  all  its  tumults  brave  ; 
Ev'n  then  peril aps  some  kinder  gale, 
\Miile  the  twin  stars  appear,  shall  fill  my  joyful  saU. 

Ovid  was  contemporary  with  Virgil,  Horace,  and 
Propertius,  but  he  did  not  reach  them  so  nearly  as 
Moore  does  Campbell,  llogers,  and  Byron.  His  ama- 
tory verses  have  great  sweetness  in  them,  and  when 
the  mind  is  matured,  may  be  read  without  any  injuri- 
ous influences,  as  a  whole.  A  part  of  his  works  are 
sentimental  without  any  indelicacies.  Wliat  can  be 
more  beautiful  tlian  his  elegy  on  his  exile?  He  was 
banished  by  Augustus,  and  died  in  exile,  at  Pontus,  on 
the  Euxine  sea. 


ELEGY  ON  HIS  EXILE. 

Now  the  swan's  plumes  are  o'er  my  temples  shed, 
"White  age  my  sable  hair  has  silvery  spread: 
Frail  years  creep  on  :  a  life  inert  is  near ; 
Now* scarce  erect  my  frame  infirm  I  rear: 
Now  were  it  fit,  some  term  to  toil  a.ssign'd. 
No  fear  should  vex  soliritous  my  mind  : 
That  I  should  reap  my  ever  favorite  ease, 
And  my  soft  leisure  with  light  studies  please. 
Il.'iimt  mv  small  house,  my  ancient  home  and  board, 
Anil  patrimonial  fields,  that  miss  their  lord. 
AVhilc  a  loved  wife,  dear  children,  should  enfold 
My  neck,  arTd  in  my  country  I  grew  old. 


244 

Thus  had  I  hoped  to  steal  my  hfe  away, 

Not  undeserving  of  this  mild  decay  : 

The  gods  thought  otherwise  :  o'er  sea  and  land 

They  drove  me  to  this  bleak  Sarmatian  strand. 

In  hollow  docks  the  shatter'd  ships  recline; 

Lest,  in  mid-ocean  split  the  starting  pine ; 

Lest  faint  he  fall,  and  shame  his  palm-crown'd  speed, 

The  languid  race-horse  crops  the  grassy  mead : 

The  veteran  soldier,  active  now  no  more. 

Hangs  by  his  old  fire-side  the  arms  he  bore : 

So,  while  in  tardy  age  my  powers  decline. 

The  wand  of  free  dismissal  should  be  mine. 

'Twas  time  no  more  to  breathe  a  foreign  air. 

Nor  to  a  Scythian  spring  in  thirst  repair  ; 

But  to  wide  gardens  (such  I  had)  retreat, 

Or  seek  the  face  of  men  in  Rome's  enlivening  street. 

This,  for  no  thoughts  the  future  could  divine, 

This  soft  old  age  I  hoped  would  have  been  mine. 

The  Fates  withstood  :  my  early  years  they  bless'd, 

And  bade  calamity  weigh  down  the  rest. 

Ten  lustres,  free  from  moral  stain,  are  fled : 

In  life's  worst  stage  misfortune  bows  my  head. 

The  goal  of  ease  just  opening  to  my  view, 

A  dreadful  shock  my  chariot- wheels  o'erthrew: 

Ah !  madman !  have  I  forc'd  from  him  a  frown. 

Than  whom  the  world  no  milder  heart  has  known? 

And  do  my  crimes  that  clemency  exceed? 

Yet  life  is  spared  me  for  my  error's  deed. 

Ah  me !  a  life  beneath  the  northern  pole ; 

Left  to  the  Euxine's  waves  that  blackening  roll: 

Had  Delphos'  cave,  Dodona's  oak,  in  strain 

Prophetic  warn'd  me,  I  had  deem'd  them  vain. 

But  nought  so  strong,  though  adamant  its  frame, 


245 

As  that  its  strengtli  repels  Jove's  rushing  flame: 
Nor  auglit  so  high,  above  misforluue's  rod, 
But  lies  beneath  th'  o'er-ruling  ami  of  God, 
What  though  my  fauh,  in  part,  these  miseries  drew, 
Too  hard  a  doom  frtim  angry  heaven  I  rue. 
"Waru'd  by  my  fate,  his  gracious  favor  prize, 
\Vho  sits  vicegerent  of  the  deities. 

Some  critics  have  attempted  to  mark  the  decHiie  of 
Roman  taste  and  genius,  by  the  writings  of  their  poets ; 
but  lliis  is  not  a  very  accurate  criterion,  for  there  may 
be  dissolute  minds  wlien  the  mass  of  the  people  are 
still  stern  in  their  morality,  and  even  Catos  in  an  age 
of  degeneracy.  It  will  not  be  denied,  that  with  the 
increase  of  sensuality  the  vigor  of  the  Roman  mind 
declined  ;  yet  there  were  stars  of  great  magnitude 
shining  from  age  to  age  in  every  period  of  Roman 
histor)'. 

In  the  reign  of  Domitian,  flourished  Juvenal.  He 
was  a  satirist  of  imperishable  memory  ;  and  what  was 
most  extraordinary,  lived  in  q  profligate  and  sanguina- 
ry court,  and  died  in  a  good  old  age.  The  secret  of  his 
security  and  long  life  was  this — he  attacked  vices  and 
not  the  vicious.  He  would  uot  have  lived  a  year,  if  he 
had,  like  Pope,  brought  living  characters  into  his  verse. 
He  made  every  moral  deformity  pass  in  review,  but  no 
one  said  "this  is  an  image  of  myself,"  even  if  he 
thought  so.  This  satire  is  more  useful  and  more  last- 
ing. Who  now  looks  afterColleyCibber,  Chartres,  Hen- 
ley, and  the  host  Pope  satirized ;  but  every  one  reads 
the  indignant  strains  of  Decimus  Junius  Juvenalis  in 
the  original  or  in  translation.  He  attacked  vices  in 
every  form,  and  while  all  felt  the  lash  no  one  could  say 


246 

he  was  the  person  intended  by  the  Satirist.  In  every 
age  men  who  feel  disturbed  at  the  reigning  vices  will 
speak  out;  and  when  they  do,  their  words  will  last  long 
and  be  effective.  Satire  takes  deep  hold  on  the  human 
mind.  In  the  worst  of  times  there  is  a  hatred  to  vice 
in  the  public  mind.  Widows  and  orphans  are  more 
numerous  than  misers  or  hard-hearted  landlords,  and 
their  resentments  to  the  latter  never  die.  It  is  easier  to 
blame  than  to  praise,  and  the  science  of  pulling  down 
was  more  readily  pursued  than  that  of  building  up  the 
characters  of  contemporaries.  The  satirists  have  re- 
ceived more  honor  than  the  eulogists,  whose  task  has 
been  hardest.  Juvenal,  in  the  opinion  of  most^scho- 
lars,  has  claims  to  an  equality  with  Plutarch  ;  but  the 
philosopher  will  not  consider  the  satirist  as  great  a 
m^n  as  the  biographer. 

We  must  pass  the  minor  Latin  poets  with  the  single 
exception  of  one  extract  from  Claudian. 

THE  OLD  MAN  OF  VERONA. 

Blest  is  the  man  who,  in  his  father's  fields, 
Has  past  an  age  of  quiet.     The  same  roof. 
That  screen'd  his  cradle,  yields  a  shelter  now 
To  his  gray  hairs.    He  leans  upon  a  staff, 
Where,  as  a  child,  he  crept  along  the  ground ; 
And,  in  one  cottage,  he  has  number'd  o'er 
A  length  of  years.     Him  Fortune  has  not  drawn 
Into  her  Avhirl  of  strange  vicissitudes ; 
Nor  has  he  drunk,  Avith  ever-changing  home, 
From  unknown  rivers.     Never  on  the  deep, 
A  merchant,  has  he  trembled  at  the  storm; 
Nof,  as  a  soldier,  started  at  the  blare 


247 

Of  trumpets ;  nor  endured  the  noisy  strife 

Of  the  hoarse-clamouring  bar:  of  the  great  world 

Simply  unconscious.     To  the  neighboring  town 

A  stranger,  he  enjoys  the  free  expanse 

Of  oi>en  heaven.     The  old  man  marks  his  year, 

Not  by  the  names  of  Consuls,  but  computes 

Time  by  his  various  crops:  by  apples  notes 

The  autumn;  by  the  blooming  flower  the  spring. 

From  the  same  field  he  sees  his  daily  sun 

Go  down,  and  lift  again  its  reddening  orb; 

And,  by  his  own  contracted  universe. 

The  rustic  measures  the  vast  light  of  day. 

He  well  remembers  that  broad  massive  oak, 

An  acorn ;  and  has  seen  the  grove  grow  old, 

Coeval  witli  himself.     Verona  seems 

To  him  more  distant  tlijin  the  swarthy  Ind: 

He  deems  the  lake  Benacus  like  the  shores 

Of  the  red  gulph.     But  his  a  vigor  hale. 

And  unabated  :  he  has  now  outlived 

Three  ages:  though  a  grandsirc,  green  in  years. 

With  firm  and  sinewy  arms.    The  traveller 

May  roam  to  farthest  Spain  :  he  more  lias  known 

Of  earllily  space;  tlic  old  man  more  of  life. 

Evdry  one  in  early  life  in  reading  ancient  history  is 
troubled  to  know  what  measure  of  credit  should  be 
given  to  the  ancient  oracles  and  mysteries,  concerning 
which  there  are  .so  many  marvellous  tales  to  be  fnund ; 
and  wq  may  as  well  dispose  of  this  subject  here  as  at 
any  other  time  or  place.  KoUin's  ancient  history,  a 
book  much  read  among  u.s,  often  mentions  the  respon- 
ses of  the  oracles  of  aiiti(|uity.  Tlu;  writer  was  a 
pious,  excellent  man,  but  was  fond  of  the  marvellous 


248 

and  not  a  little  inclined  to  superstition.  He  believed 
that  wicked  spirits  were  sometimes  permitted  by  an 
all-wise  Providence  to  reside  in  these  caves  or  inner 
shrines  to  deceive  mankind  by  indirectly  shadowing 
forth  things  to  come.  Other  historians  have  spoken 
of  the  magicians,  soothsayers,  and  astrologers,  as 
having  great  confidence  in  their  supernatural  know- 
ledge. 

The  first  account  we  have  of  these  wise  men  is  that 
given  by  Moses,  in  his  interview  with  Pharaoh.  They 
were  soon  convinced  that  they  could  not  struggle  with 
the  servants  of  the  Lord,  and  yielded  after  a  few  trials 
of  their  skill.  These  magicians  were  scientific  men 
who  soon  discovered  the  natural  from  the  miraculous. 

The  whole  worship  of  Isis  was  fuU  of  mysteries, 
and  these  wise  men  alone  had  the  key  to  them. 
Tombs,  temples,  and  all  public  buildings,  and  all  the 
arts  and  sciences,  were  full  of  mysteries  to  the  com- 
mon people.  It  was  the  same  in  Persia  and  Assyria 
as  in  Egypt,  The  wise  men  were  advisers  of  the 
king,  and  he  supported  them  in  ease  and  dignity. 
They  were  called  in  to  interpret  .the  hand  writing  on 
the  wall,  but  could  not  read  it. 

When  the  Greeks  made  themselves  masters  of  the 
learning  of  Egypt  and  Babylon  they  found  these  mys- 
teries of  no  small  importance  to  themselves.  They 
kept  up  the  same  air  of  secrecy,  and  devoted  them  to 
religious  purposes.  The  oracle  of  Delphos  having  by 
accident  established  a  reputation  for  correct  prophecies, 
continued  it,  by  art,  for  religious,  but  more  often  for 
political  purposes.  The  Pythia,  in  every  age,  was  a 
shrewd  woman,  who  knew  what  was  wanted,  and  who 
it  was  that  inquired  of  her  for  knowledge;  and  her 


249 

answers  were  made  accordingly.  The  Egyptians  and 
the  Greeks  were  well  acquainted  with  acoustics,  and 
sounds  were  managed  for  their  mysterious  responses. 
That  they  understood  the  science  of  sound,  witness 
the  ear  of  Dionysius.  This  trick  has  been  played  ofl 
in  our  times,  by  "the  invisible  lady,"  whom  most  of 
us  remember.  The  mysteries  of  Isis,  and  the  Eleusi- 
nian  mysteries,  were  kept  up  by  subterranean  caverns, 
60  constructed  as  to  throw  strange  images  before  the 
eyes  of  the  initiate  by  means  of  moveable  lights,  and 
by  tubes  conveying  strange  sounds,  when  they  were  in 
darkness,  to  frighten  them.  Every  one  can  tell  how 
busy  the  imagination  is  when  we  are  a  little  alarmed 
for  our  safety.  These  strange  sounds,  persons  accom- 
panying those  about  to  be  initiated,  were  allowed  to 
hear,  and  s<imeiime8  they  saw  flashes  of  strange  lights. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  some  of  these  ceremo 
nies  were  awfully  imjwsing.  The  higher  orders  un 
questionably  understood  tlie  whole  thing,  but  the  lower 
did  not.  Tliere  was  an  exoteric  and  an  esoteric 
meaning  to  all  their  ceremonies.  From  the  whole 
concurrent  testimony  of  ancient  history,  we  must  be- 
lieve that  t\je  Eleusinian  mysteries  were  used  for  good 
purposes,  for  there  is  not  an  instance  on  record  that 
the  honor  of  an  initiation  was  ever  obtained  by  a  very 
bad  man.  The  hierophants, — the  higher  priests  of 
the  order, — were  always  exemplary  in  their  morals, 
and  became  sanctified  in  the  eyes  of  the  people.  The 
high-priesthood  of  this  order  in  Greece  was  continued 
in  one  family, — the  Eumolpidie,  for  ages.  In  this  they 
resembled  both  the  F^gyptians  and  the  Jews. 

The  Eleusinian    mysteries  in  Rome   took  another 
fonn,  and  were  called  the  rites  of  Hona  Dea ;  but  sbt 
22 


250 

was  the  same  Ceres  that  was  worshipped  in  Greece. 
All  the  distinguished  Roman  authors  speak  of  these 
rites,  and  in  terms  of  profound  respect.  Horace  de- 
nounces the  wretch  who  should  attempt  to  reveal  the 
secrets  of  these  rites;  Virgil  mentions  these  mysteries 
with  great  respect ;  and  Cicero  alludes  to  them  with  a 
greater  reverence  than  either  of  the  poets  we  have 
named.  Both  the  Greeks  and  Romans  punished  any 
insult  offered  to  these  mysteries  wiili  the  most  perse- 
vering vindictiveness.  Alcibiades  was  charged  with 
insulting  these  religious  rites  ;  and  although  the  proof 
of  his  offence  was  quite  doubtful,  yet  he  suffered  for  it 
for  years  in  exile  and  misery  ;  and  it  must  be  allowed 
that  he  was  the  most  popular  man  of  his  age. 

These  mysteries  were  continued  until  some  time 
after  the  days  of  Constantine,  when  they  were  prohi- 
bited. Sad  stories  have  been  conjured  up  to  give  im- 
portance to  the  Egyptian  mysteries,  but  no  one  has  at- 
tempted to  throw  any  darlc  shade  over  those  of  Greece 
or  Rome.  The  philosopher  will  readily  believe  that 
there  was  nothing  supernatural  in  any  of  their  myste- 
ries; and  all  may  set  it  down  as  a  fact,  that  among 
themselves, — I  speak  of  those  initiated, — ^they  never 
pretended  to  any  thing  like  a  commerce  with  the  in- 
habitants of  the  invisible  world.  They  unquestionably 
often  assumed  to  possess  wondrous  powers  and  great 
ecrets;  but  this  was  only  a  means  of  keeping  know- 
ledge from  becoming  too  common;  and  this  was  an 
error  which  lasted  for  ages,  even  down  to  our  times. 

Viewed  by  the  light  of  a  clear  understanding,  I  be- 
lieve all  the  marvellous  deeds  of  the  magicians,  the  as- 
trologers, the  soothsayers,  the  Pithia,  and  the  whole 
tribe  of   these   mystery-dealing  beings,   vanisli  inco 


251 

things,  if  not  easily  explainetl,  yet  certainly  to  be 
traced  out.  Incantations,  charms,  anil  talismans,  which 
thicken  on  every  page  of  early  history,  are  dissolved 
before  the  torch  of  reason,  and  a  clear  conscience. 

The  Sibylline  Oracles  of  Rome  had  once  great  influ- 
ence among  the  people,  and  many  honest  men  have 
now  a  belief  that  these  oracles  foretold  the  coming  of 
our  Saviour;  but  the  wise  part  of  our  theologians 
have  long  since  given  up  this  fancy,  for  it  can  hardly 
be  called  a  belief.  The  pastoral  from  Virgil,  which  we 
have  selected,  contains  the  supirosed  prophecy.  The 
following  is  as  fair  an  account  of  it  as  wc  have  seen. 

"  The  Sibylline  Oracles  having  received  information 
from  the  Jews,  tnat  a  child  was  to  be  born,  who  should 
be  the  Saviour  of  the  world,  and  to  whom  nations  and 
empires  should  bow  with  submission,  pretended  to  fore 
tell  that  this  event  would  occur  in  the  year  of  Rome  714, 
alter  the  peace  concluded  between  Augustus  and  An- 
tony. Virgil  viewing  this  prophecy  with  the  vivid  ima- 
gination of  a  poet,  and  willing  to  flatter  the  ambition  of 
his  patron,  composed  his  celebrated  Eclogue,  entitled 
Pollio,  in  which  he  supposes  the  child,  who  was  thus  to 
unite  mankind  and  restore  the  golden  age,  to  be  the  in- 
fant with  which  Octavia,  wife  to  Antony,  and  half-sister 
to  Augustus,  was  then  pregnant  by  her  former  husband 
Marcelfus.  In  this  production  the  consul  Pollio,  Octa- 
via, and  even  the  unborn  infant,  are  flattered  with  his 
usual  delicacy;  and  the  rival  Triumviri,  tliough  a  short 
lime  before  in  open  hostility,  have  the  honor  of  equal- 
ly sharing  the  poet's  applause. 

While  Pollio,  who  seems  to  have  been  the  most  ac- 
complished man  of  hi»  age,  and  is  celebrated  as  a  poet, 
soldier,  orator,  and  hiatorian,  was  engaged  in  an  e.\pc- 


252 

dition  against  the  Parthini,  whom  he  subdued,  Virgil 
addressed  to  him  his  Pharmaceutria,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  his  Eclogues,  and  in  imitation  of  a  poem 
of  the  same  name  by  his  favourite  author  Theocritus. 
This  production  is  the  more  valuable,  as  it  has  handed 
down  to  posterity  the  superstitious  rites  of  the  Romans, 
and  the  heathen  notions  of  enchantment.  Virgil  him- 
self seems  fo  have  been  conscious  of  the  beauty  of 
his  subject,  and  the  dignity  of  the  person  whom  he  was 
addressing,  and  accordingly  has  given  us,  by  the  fertili- 
ty of  his  genius  and  the  brilliancy  of  his  imagination, 
some  of  the  most  sublime  images  that  are  to  be  found 
in  any  writings  of  antiquity ." 

Some  of  the  Christian  forefathers  have  stated,  that 
on  the  eve  of  the  birth  of  our  Saviour,  all  the  oracles  of 
the  heathen  world  ceased.  It  is  certain  that  the  Del- 
phic oracles  grew  into  disrepute  about  this  time ;  but 
the  Eleusinian  mysteries,  and  those  of  the  Bona  Dea, 
were  kept  up  much  longer.  Milton  adopted  the  belief 
of  the  early  fathers  of  the  church,  and  has  expressed 
his  poetical  opinion,  in  an  ode  upon  the  subject  of  the 
silence  of  the  oracles,  which  is  full  of  deep  interest 
and  exquisite  beauties.  There  is  a  solemn  reverence 
due  to  his  opinions  when  they  are  given  on  great 
points  of  faith ;  for  if  ever  there  was  a  mind  God  had 
filled  with  light  and  inspiration  without  the  gift  of 
prophecy,  it  was  that  of  John  Milton.  But  there  is  no 
more  reason  to  think  that  he  was  convinced  of  this  as 
a  fact,  than  that  he  believed  all  the  incidents  in  his 
Paradise  Lost. 

"  The  oracles  are  dumb, 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Rxins  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiviag. 


253 

Apollo  from  liis  shrine 

Cm  U'l  iiinro  diviii"', 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  lea\-ing. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathdii  spell, 
luapires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  proi)hctic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er 
And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament; 
From  haunted  sprinj;  and  dale, 
Edged  with  poplar  pale. 
The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent: 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  lorn, 

The  Nymphs,  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled   lliickets, 
mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth 
And  on  the  holy  hearth. 
The  Lares  and  Lemures  moa  .  with  midnight  plaint; 
In  uius  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affright  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat. 
While  each  peculiar  power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both. 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers  holy  shrine; 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 
(d  rain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammua 
mourn. 

22* 


254 

And  sullen  Moloch,  Qed, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue ; 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue ; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 
In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 
Trampling  the  unshowered  grass  with  lowings  loud; 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest. 
Nought  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud. 
In  vain  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped  ark. 

He  feels  from  Judah's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand, 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside, 
Longer  dare  abide. 
Nor  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine  : 
Our  babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 

Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 
Pillows  his  chin  on  an  orient  wave, 

The  flocking  shadows  pale 

Troop  to  th'  infernal  jail. 
Each  fetter'd  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave; 


255 

And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 

Fly  after  the  night  steeds,  leaving  their  moon-loved 
ina-'c. 

But  see,  the  Virgin-bless'd 
Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest ; 
Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending  • 
Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 
Hatli  rtx'd  her  poHsh'd  car, 
Her  sleeping  Lord  wiili  handmaid  lamp  attending ; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

All  superstitions  arc  to  be  traced  to  the  diseases  of 
the  body  or  the  mind.  The  filtres  and  charms  are 
made  fur  a  diseased  body  or  mind.  Sometimes  they 
maj'  be  efficacious,  by  chance  ;  sometimes  nature,  the 
best  of  nurses,  overcomes  all  obstacles  and  heals  the 
malady  in  spite  of  the  nostrums  prescribed.  Among 
the  ignorant,  in  all  nations  and  ages,  these  panaceas 
are  found.  The  greater  the  ignorance  tlie  mpre  effica- 
cious the  charm.  Tlie  charm  called  tlie  Obi,  or  Obiah, 
which  is  now  practised  in  Jamaica,  and  other  slave- 
holding  places,  was  brought  from  Africa,  and  is  now 
known  througliout  the  country  bordering  on  the  Sene- 
gal and  on  the  Gambia,  and  probably  is  a  very  ancient 
superstition.  Something  resembling  this  charm  has 
been  practised  by  tlie  Indians  all  over  this  continent. 
I  attended  the  process  of  a  charm  as  practised  by  the 
Winnebagoes  for  the  cure  of  one  of  their  delegation, 
when  they  were  in  Washington  in  1829.  The  Indian 
was  very  sick  and  quite  insensible.  They  began  by 
taking  out  of  a  bag  a  {jreat  variety  of  articles,  such  a» 


£5i3 

beads,  glass  mirrors,  pieces  of  human  skin,  with  many 
Other  matters, — a  medley  shocking  to  the  sight,  and 
offensive  to  the  smell.  A  portion  of  the  ingjediunts 
was  burnt,  a  sort  of  chant  was  held  over  the  fire  by 
some  members  of  the  delegation  which  seemed  to  be 
confined  to  those  who  could  keep  time  in  singing. 
Then  deep  breathings  and  low  moans  were  heard.  At 
times  the  voices  were  raised  to  the  higher  notes.  Some 
threw  themselves  on  the  floor  as  if  in  agony.  This 
was  continued  for  two  hours,  during  which  time  the 
eick  man  was  stretched  by  a  fire  in  another  room,  and 
entirely  deserted  by  those  making  up  the  charm.  In 
their  absence  a  physician  of  the  city  came  in,  at  the 
request  of  the  host,  and  succeeded  in  relieving  the  jia- 
tient.  When  the  charm  was  wound  up,  an  Indian  wo- 
man, the  only  one  accompanying  the  delegation,  crept 
islowly  towards  the  sick  man.  Ilis  eyes  were  opened  ; 
he  spoke ;  the  spell  had  succeeded, — in  an  instant  the 
roof  resounded  with  the  yells  of  savage  joy.  Who 
could  dispute  the  power  of  the  charm  with  those  sons 
of  the  forest. 

This  same  charm,  or  one  near  allied  to  it,  is  now 
practised  in  the  Sandwich  Islands.  We  need  not 
dwell  on  this  part  of  the  subject,  for  one  half  of  our 
quack  medicines  are  legitimate  descendants  of  these 
superstitions.  Diseases  of  ihe  mind  are  prolific  of  su- 
perstitious deeds.  Saul  did  not  consult  the  witch  of 
Endor  until  he  was  in  despair ;  nor  did  Brutus  see  the 
ghost  of  Caesar,  or  any  other  spectre,  until  his  hands 
had  been  stained  with  blood,  and  his  nerves  had  been 
agitated  in  contemplating  the  fate  of  himself,  and  his 
army.  The  thoughts  of  bloody  deeds  are  often  accom- 
panied with  superstitious  omens.     When  the  deed  of 


257 

death  first  darted  into  the  mind  of  Lady  Macbeth,  ahe 
said,  in  solilo<]uy, 

"The  raven  himself  is  hoarse, 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements." 

When  Macbeth  had  been  braced  up  to  Duncan's  death, 
the  dagger  appeared  before  him,  palpable  as  tliat  he 
■wore. 

"  It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 

Thus  to  mine  eyes.     Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 

Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 

The  curtain'd  sleep  ;  now  witchcraft  celebrates 

Pale  Hecate's  oHerings;  and  wither'd  murder, 

Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 

Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  stealthy  pace. 

With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design, 

Moves  like  a  ghost.    Thou  sure  and  firm  set  earth, 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  where-about." 

For  a  while  he  could  hear  Lady  Macbelh's  advice— 

"  Things  without  remedy. 
Should  be  without  regard"— 

for  Duncan  was  dead  ;  but  Banquo  and  Fleance  were 
still  living;  but  when  one  had  twenty  mortal  murders 
on  his  head,  and  the  other  had  fled  from  his  murderers, 
he  could  not  any  longer  forbear  consulting  the 


258 

^* Secret,  black  and  midnight  hags, 
That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear 
And  break  it  to  our  hope." 

Feeble  minds  under  the  influence  of  supposed  guilt, 
are  more  likely  to  be  affected  by  superstitious  feelings 
than  strong  ones,  full  of  deeds  of  blood.  Sickness, 
fatigue,  and  hunger  would  have  made  Hercules  a  whin- 
ing child,  as  chills  and  fever  did  the  mighty  Caesar ; 
but  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound  body,  with  a  good  educa- 
tion and  a  clear  conscience,  will  never  fear  the  charms 
of  superstition,  the  spells  of  witchcraft,  nor  the  power 
of  magic.  The  seeds  of  superstition  are  too  often 
sown  in  the  nursery,  and  cherished  in  our  youthful 
days.  Bugbears  are  too  often  mingled  with  luUabys, 
and  raw-head  and  bloody  bones  with  the  first  tales 
given  to  amuse  infancy.  The  household  divinities 
should  all  be  pure,  kind,  lovely  characters,  having 
countenances  of  beauty  and  tongues  of  truth.  The 
stories  of  the  fireside  -should  be  free  from  all  hobgob- 
lins and  monsters.  If  it  was  thought  proper  to  sur- 
round the  altar  of  Hymen  with  forms  of  taste  for  effect, 
surely  it  is  of  as  much  importance  lo  keep  the  infant 
mind  clear  of  all  monsters. 

Seen  by  the  light  of  philosophy  and  sound  sense,  all 
the  marvellous  deeds  of  the  magician,  the  astrologer,  and 
the  whole  tribe  of  those  who  attempt  to  deceive  the  peo- 
ple, sink  mto  those  of  common  men,  and  we  only  admire 
their  wisdom  and  skill  while  we  are  relieved  by  thein- 
vestigation  from  all  dread  of  enchantments,  talismans, 
and  spells,  which  thicken  in  almost  every  page  of  the 
early  history  of  mankind.  It  is  astonishing  that  the 
press,  at  the  present  day,  should  teem  Aviih  quartos  and 


259 

royal  octavos,  upon  the  occult  science  of  astrology.  A 
splendid  volume,  called  ''The  Astrotos:y  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,"  has  just  been  laid  upon  our  tables. 
Tlic  compiler,  or  author,  is  vexed  to  find  Uiat  the  very 
useful  subjects  of  which  he  treats  do  not  attract  more 
attention  from  the  learned!  But  the  subject  ensures 
the  s;!.'  of  the  work,  ar.d  probably  his  ends  are  answer- 
ed by  this  alone.  The  curious  may  look  into  this  work 
to  smile;  to  see  how  learning  can  put  on  a  fool's  cap, 
and  talk  of  conjurations  and  apparitions,  and  all  the 
unmeaning  words,  letters,  and  ceremonies  of  an  Abra- 
cadabra. 

Modern  witclicraft  is  now  only  an  amusing  tale,  and 
may  be  read  for  the  purposes  of  a  gentle  sensatioii  after 
dinner,  when  otiier  things  are  dull.  Our  countrymen 
never  made  a  charge  against  any  one  for  being  a  wiz- 
ard. This  term  is  from  the  same  root  as  the  word 
wise,  or  wisdom;  while  the  word  witch,  is  from  a  Saxon 
word,  meaning  loicked,  aud  is  used  as  a  noun  of  com- 
mon gender. 

Do  not  understand  me,  that  while  I  would,  as  with 
a  sponge,  wipe  out  all  traces  of  superstition  from  the 
human  mind,  all  records  of  our  early  daj's,  when  we 
trembled  and  half  believed  the  well  authenticated  tales 
of  some  honest  neighbor,  who  heanl  his  grandfather 
say,'  that  he  ha<l  hmrd  the  famous  Cotton  Mather  say, 
in  public  and  in  private,  that  witches  were  an  abomina- 
tion, and  that  they  ought  to  have  been  cutoff  when  the 
foolish  people  saved  them;  that  I  would  prefer  a  cold, 
selfish  unbelief  for  my  guide.  No:  I  should  prefer  the 
highest  extent  of  credulity  to  such  a  state  of  mind. 
That  apathy  which  looks  on  all  worlds,  visible  or  tn- 
oisibU,  as  a  subject  of  doubt,  or  unbelief,  may  be  free 


260 

from  pain,  but  there  can  be  no  pleasure  in  it.  There 
are,  perhaps,  many  things  in  our  history,  and  even  ia 
our  natures  and  our  hopes,  hard  to  be  understood,  end 
some  portion  of  them  that  the  Great  Author  of  our  race 
never  intended  that  we  should  be  fully  acquainted  with 
in  our  present  state  of  existence.  A  sound  mind  will 
very  readily  comprehend  enough  of  its  powers  and 
capacities  to  teach  it  never  to  strive  to  attain  what  is 
above  human  reach,  or  to  sink  with  fear  at  that  which 
it  cannot  readily  explain. 

There  is  a  belief  *'  that  casteth  out  all  fear  ;"  a  belief 
that  gilds  the  joyous  season  of  youth ;  a  belief  that  is  a 
light  to  the  warrior  in  the  hour  of  battle ;  that  beams  in 
the  sage's  eye,  and  breathes  from  his  lips  ;  a  belief  that 
sustains  the  martyr  in  the  agonies  of  death  ;  that  brings 
beatific  visions  around  the  head  of  the  dying  saint;  and 
one  that  takes  from  death  his  sting,  and  from  the  grave 
its  victory. 

*'  In  the  deep  windings  of  the  grove,  no  more 
The  hag  obscene  and  grisly  phantom  dwell ; 
Nor  in  the  fall  of  mountain-stream,  or  roar 
Of  winds,  is  heard  the  angry  spirit's  yell ; 
No  wizard  mutters  the  tremendous  spell, 
Nor  sinks  convulsive  in  prophetic  swoon ; 
I     Nor  bids  the  noise  of  drums  and  trumpets  swell, 

To  ease  of  fancied  pangs  the  laboring  moon. 
Or  chase  the  shade  that  blots  the  blazing  orb  of  noon. 

•'  Many  a  long-lingering  year,  in  lonely  isle, 
Stimn'd  with  th'  eternal  turbulence  of  Avaves, 
Lo,  with  dim  eyes  that  never  learned  to  smile. 
And  trembling  hands,  the  famish'd  native  craves 


261 

Of  Heaven  his  wretched  fare:  sliivering  in  caves 
Or  scorcli'd  on  rocks,  he  pines  from  day  to  dayj 
But  science  irives  the  word ;  and  lo,  lie  braves 
The  surge  and  tempest,  lighted  by  her  ray, 
And  to  a  happier  land  wafts  merrily  away. 

" '  And  e'en  where  nature  loads  the  teeming  plain 
With  the  full  pomp  of  vegetable  store, 
Her  bounty,  unimprov'd,  is  deadly  bane: 
Dark  woods  and  rankling  wilds,  from  shore  to  shore 
Stretch  their  enormous  gloom;  which  to  explore 
Ev'n  fancy  trembles  in  her  sprightliest  mood : 
For  there  each  eyeball  gleams  with  lust  of  gore, 
Nestles  each  murderous  and  each  monstrous  brood, 
Plague  lurks  in  every  shade,  and  steams  from  every 
flood. 

"  '  'Twas  from  philosophy  man  learn'd  to  tame 
The  soil  by  plenty  to  intemperance  fed. 
Lo,  from  the  echoing  axe,  and  thundering  flame, 
Poison  and  plague  and  yelling  rage  are  fled : 
The  waters,  bursting  from  their-elimy  bed, 
Bring  health  and  melody  to  every  vale : 
And,  from  the  breezy  main,  and  mountain's  head, 
Ceres  and  Flora,  to  tlie  sunny  dale. 
To  fan  their  glowing  charms,  invite  the  fluttering  gale. 

" '  What  dire  necessities  on  every  hand 
Our  art,  our  strength,  our  fortitude  require! 
Of  foes  intestine  what  a  numerous  band 
Against  this  little  throb  of  life  conspire! 
.Yet  science  can  elude  their  fatal  ire 
23 


263 

Awhile,  and  turn  aside  death's  levelFd  dart, 
Sooth  the  sharp  pang,  allay  the  fever's  fire, 
And  brace  the  nerves  once  more,  and  cheer  the  heart, 
And  yet  a  few  soft  nights  and  balmy  days  impart. 

*'  'Nor  less  to  regulate  man's  moral  frame 
Science  exerts  her  all-composing  sway. 
Flutters  thy  breast  with  fear,  or  pants  for  fame, 
Or  pines  to  indolence  and  spleen  a  prey, 
Or  avarice,  a  fiend  more  fierce  than  they  1 
Flee  to  the  shade  of  Academus'  grove; 
Where  cares  molest  not,  discord  melts  away 
In  harmony,  and  the  pure  passions  prove 
How  sweet  the  words  of  truth  breath'd  from  the  lips 
of  love. 

"  *  What  cannot  art  and  industry  perform. 
When  science  plans  the  progress  of  their  toil 
They  smile  at  penury,  disease,  and  storm  ; 
And  oceans  from  their  mighty  mounds  recoil. 
When  tyrants  scourge,  or  demagogues  embroil 
A  land,  or  when  the  rabble's  headlong  rage 
Order  transforms^o  anarchy  and  spoil, 
Deep-vers'd  in  man,  the  philosophic  sage 
Prepares  with  lenient  hand  their  frenzy  to  assuage. 

"'Tis  he  alone,  whose  comprehensive  mind, 
From  situation,  temper,  soil,  and  clime 
Explored,  a  nation's  various  powers  can  bind, 
And  varions  orders,  in  one  form  sublime 
Of  polity,  that,  midst  the  wrecks  of  time 
Secure  shall  lift  its  head  on  high,  nor  fear 
Th'  assault  of  foreign  or  domestic  crime, 


263 

While  public  faith,  and  public  love  sincere, 
And  industry  and  law  maintain  tlicir  sway  severe." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

When  the  Caesars  had  passed  away,  and  Rome  had 
become  as  corrupt  as  any  city  of  the  cast,  a  new  direc- 
tion w;i<;  given  to  the  Imnian  mind  by  tlie  conversion  of 
Constantine  to  the  Christian  religion,  in  the  commence- 
ment of  the  fourth  century.  In  this  century,  379, 
Theodosius  divided  the  empire,  and  Byzantium  became 
the  seat  of  government.  The  western  empire  from 
that  date  began  to  decline.  New  nations,  ahnost  un- 
known before,  now  started  up  to  agitate  the  world. 
The  Huns,  who  had  inhabited  the  north  of  China,  a 
numerous  race,  now  swept  over  the  better  part  of 
Europe,  and  in  their  way  made  war  upon  Rome  and 
Greece ;  and  also  upon  their  brother  barbarians,  the 
Goths. 

In  395,  Alaric,  king  of  the  Goths,  attacked  Greece. 
In  400,  he  was  met  by  the  Romans,  and  defeated.  R»- 
dagaisus  entered  Italy  with  a  vast  army,  and  was  de- 
feated, ana  slain,  wliich  proves  tliat  the  Romans  were 
still  a  warlike  people.  In  408,  Alaric  took  Rome,  and 
soon  after  died,  while  besieging  Rhcgio.  He  was  buried 
under  the  bed  of  a  river,  which  tlie  Goths  had  turned 
aside  for  that  purpose.  In  4-14,  Attilla  appeared  at  the 
head  of  the  Hiins  and  swept  over  tlie  eartli  :i.s  the 
scourge  of  God.  He  laid  cities  in  ashe.s,  but  was  in 
fl  short  time  defeated  by  Theodoric,  kinc  of  the  Vi»- 
golhs.     He  was  permitted  to  die  a  natural  death. 


264 

The  Goths,  who  had  issued  from  Scandinavia  and 
overran  Pomerania,  divided  into  Vis-goths  and  Ostra- 
goths, — west  and  east  Goths.  In  their  conflicte  with 
the  Huns  they  were  scattered  and  divided,  and  part  of 
them  formed  the  new  kingdom  of  Italy. 

These  nations,  who  liad  made  tlieir  conquests  and 
settlements,  though  almost  unknown  to  tlie  ancient 
Greeks  and  Romans,  gave  a  new  character  to  the  world ; 
for  new  elements  were  developed,  and  new  powers  ex- 
hibited. The  Roman  character  was  not  wholly  lost  in 
these  ages  of  war  and  blood,  for  in  the  days  of  Justin- 
ian, Belisarius  emulated  the  Scipios  and  the  other 
men  of  war  of  former  periods.  This  great  general  is 
used  so  much  in  the  legends  of  fiction,  as  proving  the 
inconstancy  of  fortune,  that  he  is  almost  overlooked  in 
sober  history ;  but  the  "  Date  obulum  Belisario"  wa3 
no  fiction,  it  was  as  sober  truth  as  the  story  of  St.  He- 
lena and  Longwood, — l>oth  awful  lessons  to  ambitious 
chieftains.  The  beggar  through  the  cities  of  Italy  and 
Greece  once  annihilated  the  power  of  the  Vandals,  and 
reduced  them  to  as  great  a  state  of  wretchedness  as  he 
himself  afterwards  was  by  the  power  of  a  capricious, 
ungrateful  master. 

New  dynasties  arose,  and  the  world  of  matter  was 
again  to  be  disturbed  by  the  world  of  mind.  There  had 
been  a  mixing  up  of  the  Christian  with  Pagan  idolatry, 
and  a  mongrel  race  of  thinkers  was  formed  throughout 
all  Europe,  and  in  parts  of  Asia  and  Africa. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  seventh  century,  622, 
Mahomet  arose,  the  founder  of  a  new  sect  in  religion. 
He  was  a  master  spirit.  He  succeeded  beyond  all  other 
imposters, — for  this  sound  reason:  He  fashioned  his 
general  doctrines  to  the  nature  of  man— his  appetites. 


265 

^dispositions,  and  modeeof  reauoning.  He  said hiniself, 
tlial  he  uiihj  developed  htoiian  tiuture  lu  direct  it,  not  to 
overcoiiR'  or  subjugate  it.  ^Vilh  llic  aid  of  the  Jtwisli 
seriiiturt'S  and  some  of  tl;e  first  (."liristian  wriUis,  he 
prepared  tlie.  Koran,  a  most  sublime  composition,  as  a 
whole  ;  favorable,  in  general,  to  virtue,  and  particularly 
useful  as  a  law  book  in  the  country  in  which  he  lived. 
It  was  a  most  admirable  improvement  on  the  code  of 
Asiatic  laws,  in  relation  to  the  rights  of  women, — de- 
fining their  rights,  and  securing  what  it  defined.  If  he 
is  said  to  encourage  licentiousness,  it  is  because  the 
critic  docs  not  consider  how  mucli  the  iniposter  had  to 
contend  with  in  formint;  liis  creed.  We  should  not,  in 
our  estimation  of  the  Koran,  consider  how  much  it  falls 
short  of  the  code  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  but  how  much 
superior  it  is  to  all  the  heathen  codes  then,  or  even 
now,  extant.  It  created  and  perpetuated  a  temperance 
society ;  yet  tliere  is  a  great  deal  that  is  trivial  mixed 
up  with  the  moral  and  sentimental  in  it.  It  should  be 
remembered  also,  that  the  Mahometans  did  not  wage 
war  with  the  Christians  until  the  Christians  had  made 
a  furious  onset  upon  them.  The  historian  should  go 
over  his  course  impartially,  on  peril  of  forfeiting  his  cha- 
racter for  principle  and  honesty  as  well  as  accuracJ^ 

While  this  excitement  was  going  on  in  the  east,  and 
the  doctrines  of  Maliometanism  were  spreading  over  an 
immense  extent  of  territory,  the  northmen  were  not 
idle.  Fond  of  navigation,  and  f(;ar]ess  of  tlie  dangers 
of  the  seas,  they  made  great  progress  in  tlie  size  and 
forms  of  their  ships,  and  in  the  method  of  sailing  them. 
Instead  of  being  confined  to  oars,  or  a  little  sail  used 
only  in  going  before  the  wind, — as  the  maritime  people 
of  the  Mediterranean  were  accustomed  to, — they  raised 
23* 


2Q.Q 

decks  to  their  "  steeds  of  the  ocean,"  and  learned  to 
sail  them  as  near  the  wind  as  the  mariners  of  the  pre-' 
sent  day  do  their  great  ships.  These  liardy,  bold,  high- 
spirited  people, — the  Saxons,  Danes,  Fins,  and  all  their 
tribes, — had  in  their  veins  the  true  currents  of  liberty, 
and  those  which  are  now  floating  in  ours,  and  those  of 
our  English  and  Dutch  ancestors. 

Christianity  travelled  northward,  and  came  to  the 
island  of  Great  Britain  in  the  days  of  Alfred  the  Wise; 
and  it  had  been  previously  introduced  into  Ireland, 
where  the  great  king  had  been  an  exile  and  a  student 
for  years.  Soon  after  Italy  had  encouraged  letters,  and 
cultivated  a  taste  for  learning,  something  of  the  spirit 
grew  up  in  France.  Ireland  also  was  renowned  for  its 
attention  to  the  learning  of  the  age.  Roman  literature, 
as  well  as  the  Aristotelian  philosophy,  was  known  in 
Ireland  in  the  sixth  century. 

In  the  fifth  century  some  few  persons,  driven  from 
Italy,  laid  the  foundation  of  the  maritime  city  of  Venice. 
It  seemed  to  grow  up  with  the  commercial  enterprize 
of  Carthage  and  the  military  ambition  of  Rome.  This 
new  Tyre  was  most  powerful  by  sea.  In  her  pride,  she 
fought,  single  handed,  with  the  mighty  Ottoman  power 
and  bore  her  flag,  generally  triumphant,  from  tlie  mouth 
of  the  Nile  to  the  pillar  of  Hercules,  about  as  much  of 
the  coast  as  was  then  known.  The  civil  government  of 
Venice  was,  notwithstanding  her  power,  most  oppres- 
sive and  unjust.  It  'was  an  unchecked  aristocracy. 
The  nobles  were  the  government.  The  people  had  no 
.rights,  and  the  doge,— the  head  of  what  was  called  the 
republic,— was  only  a  shadow  of  a  king.  In  the  senate 
he  had  no  authority,  and  out  of  the  city  he  was  only  a 
private  man.    Wlioever  was  vain  enough  to  be  conr 


2G7 

tented  by  the  rubos  of  office,  was  happy  as  a  doge ; 
but  he  Mho  wislied  for  power  and  influence  was  always 
wretclied  and  restless  in  that  office.  For  many  centu- 
ries, this  sea-city  held  her  sway  over  the  commerce  of 
the  Levant;  and  from  lier  wealth  and  judicious  com- 
mercial regulations,  notwithstanding  her  wretched  civil 
government,  she  kept  all  her  rivals  at  a  distance,  until 
she  found  a  competitor  in  the  republic  of  Florence. 
During  the  crusades,  from  1070  to  1250,— for  in  this 
period  the  most  important  of  these  expeditions  were 
undertaken,— the  ships  of  Venice  were  cmploj^Cd  as 
transports  to  aid  the  invaders  of  Palestine  on  their  way 
to  the  scene  of  action.  Venice  profited  by  freighting 
contracts,  and  by  her  discoveries  of  the  best  channels  of 
the  commerce  of  the  east ;  while  the  other  nations  were 
engaged  in  Llieir  Quixotic  expeditions  for  the  avowed 
good  of  religion.  The  instance  of  this  aristocracy,  with 
tliai  of  Rome,  are  beacon  lights  to  all  nations,  never  to 
confide  power  to  one  class  of  men  alone.  The  doctrine 
of  checks  and  balances  was  not  then  understood. 

In  the  ninth  century,  the  Arabs, — hitherto  a  race 
which  now  and  then  struck  a  blow  in  the  world  wor- 
thy of  note,  but  who  held  no  precise  or  decided  rank, — 
suddenly  became  the  most  enlightened  people  in  the 
Morld.  They  pursued  the  elements  of  learning  with 
an  eirthusiasm  before  unknown  in  the  annals  of  letters 
and  sciences.  They  translated  the  Greek  writers,  and 
madf  them  their  own.  The  Arabic  language  became 
one  of  the  most  copious  and  lovely  that  time  lias  pro- 
duced or  matured.  A  great  portion  of  this  learning  was 
lost  in  the  confusion  of  the  succeeding  ages,  but  some 
of  it  has  come  down  to  us,  and  this  small  portion  ia.  ao 
full  of  life  and  splendor,  that  it  increases  our  regret  tt  t 


we  cannot  have  more  of  it.  The  persevering  hnguists 
of  the  present  day  are  searching  for  whatever  remains 
of  the  Arabic  literature  from  Cairo  to  Bagdad,  and  they 
cheer  lis  with  hopes  tliat  much  may  yet  be  found.  The 
sweet  and  sparkhng  current  of  the  Arabic  would  reUeve 
the  leaden  and  ponderous  language  of  the  deep  philo- 
sophy of  modern  times,  and  would  assist  the  inventors 
of  our  day, — who  are  now  a  great  class  in  our  coun- 
try,— to  many  happy  terms  of  art  and  science.  They 
have  almost  exhausted  the  fountains  of  Greek  litera- 
ture tor  terms  in  their  inventions.  It  would  be  a  hap- 
py circumstance  if  a  new  one  could  be  opened. 

In  1137,  the  pandects  of  Justinian  were  recovered  at 
Almasi,  and  these  excellent  laws  were  copied,  read  and 
adopted  by  the  nations  of  Italy  first,  and  then  generally 
adopted  throughout  all  Europe.  The  commerce  of 
several  nations  was  then  rapidly  increasing,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  century,  reached  a  much  greater  extent 
*  than  we  of  the  present  day  have  generally  supposed. 
France  and  England,  particularly  the  former,  were 
greatly  exhausted  by  the  crusades,  and  now  turned 
their  attention  to  commerce  in  order  to  replenish  their 
treasuries.  The  English  were  a  spirited  people  at  this 
time ;  in  1215,  the  magna  diarta  was  wrested  from 
their  weak  and  wretched  monarch,  king  John.  From 
this  instrument,  the  British  date  their  liberties.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  bill  of  rights  for  the  nobles,  bishops,  and  land- 
holders in  that  country.  In  1200,  the  polarity  of  mag- 
netized iron  was  discovered  at  Naples,  and  the  phenom- 
enon was  soon  communicated  to  all  the  maritime  na- 
tions of  Europe.  Some  historians  pretend  that  this  was 
kiiown  ages  before  in  China.  This  it  quite  possible, 
but  there  is  no  satisfactory  proof  that  the  discovery 


269 

was  ever  made  in  China,  and  certainly,  it  was  never 
used  for  the  purposes  of  navigation  among  the  Chinese. 
Several  causes  about  tliis  time  conspired  to  change  the 
business  and  cliaractcr  of  nations  in  addition  to  those  we 
have  named.     In  the  year  1204,  Constantinople  was 
taken  by  the  union  of  the  forces  of  France  and  Venice  ; 
and  they  were,  iu  fact,  masters  of  most  of  the  islands 
in  the  Archipelago.    The  French,  always  quick  in  their 
apprehensions,  .soon  became  acquainted  witli  the  infor- 
mation to  be  found  at  Constantinople,  and  all  the  re- 
gion round  about  it.     Science  and  the  arts  were  more 
flourisliing  there  than  in  other  portions  of  the  globe. 
The  power  of  France  was  not  long  continued  at  Con- 
•tantinople.     The   successors   of  the   conqueror  had 
more  militarj'  and  religious  zeal  than  political  sagaci- 
ty,  and  this   fine    position  was  abandoned    in     1261. 
The  Greek  emperors  held  it  from  that  time  until  it  was 
taken  by  the  Turks  in  1453.     France  had  not  leisure  or 
inclination  to  profit  by  the  lessons  she  had  learned  in 
war,  and  did  not  take  the  lead  in  maritime  affairs  she 
might  have  done.     It  was  reserved  for  smaller  states  to 
achieve  those  enterprizes  which  have  given  to  Europe 
the  commerce  of  the  world.    The  small  kingdom  of 
Portugal  was  destined  to  have  an  early  share  in  mari- 
time exploits  and  discoveries.     Portugal  was  proud  of 
having  expelled  the  Moors  from  her  territories,  and 
felt  equal  to  great  enterprizes.    Well  situated  for  com- 
mercial pursuits,  she  kept  up  a  respectable  navy  for 
that  day.     She  had  learned  the  art  of  ship-building 
from  the  north,  and  the  still  greater  art  of  sailing  them 
from  the  same  quarter. 

In  1411,  the  Porlucuesf,  under  King  John,  began 
their  discoveries.    They  had  men  among  them  who 


270 

had  studied  geography  and  the  mathematics,  as  far  as 
they  were  then  known.  The  first  enterprize  was  ra- 
ther a  matter  of  war  than  of  commerce  or  discovery, 
but  it  greatly  enlarged  their  knowledge  of  the  coast  of 
Africa.  In  1418,  some  Portuguese  vessels  were  driven 
by  a  storm  into  the  wide  Atlantic,  and  thus  the.Madeira 
Islands  were  discovered  by  an  accident.  These  islands 
were  soon  taken  possession  of  by  the  Portuguese.  En- 
couraged by  their  successs,  the  Portuguese  fearless- 
ly pushed  their  exploring  expeditions  along  the  coast 
of  Africa,  and  in  1433  they  had  reached  the  mouth  of 
the  Senegal.  In  1449,  the  Cape  de  Verd  Islands  were 
discovered,  and  the  Azores  soon  after.  At  this  time 
they  had  ventured  a  thousand  miles  from  the  Europe- 
an continent ;  thus  ^'evincing  a  degree  of  enterprize  that 
astonished  themselves  and  other  nations.  The  adven- 
turous navigators  of  Venice,  Florence,  Genoa,  and 
others  from  the  north,  flocked  to  Portugal  to  join  those 
engaged  in  discoveries ;  but  notwithstanding  their  ex- 
ertions,, the  Portuguese  did  not  pass  the  line  until  1471. 
This  was  no  small  affair,  for  most  geographers,  previ- 
ous to  this  period,  supposed  the  torrid  zone  nearly  or 
quite  uninhabited ;  that  burning  sands  and  scorching 
suns  were  too  powerful  for  life,  animal  or  vegetable  ; 
but  what  must  have  been  their  surprise,  when  they 
foimd  a  new,  and,  in  many  respects,  a  more  beautiful 
creation  there  than  they  had  ever  seen  or  imagined ! — 
a  region  teeming  with  inhabitants  of  earth  and  air,  be- 
yond what  their  own  could  support,  and  a  vegetation 
luxuriant  and  refreshing  and  full  of  food !  In  1484, 
the  Portuguese  took  possession  of  several  places  in  the 
southern  hemisphere,  but  it  was  two  years  after  this 
before  they  reached  cape  Good  Hope,  which  was  first 


271 

called  the  Cape  of  Storms.  It  is  by  no  means  certain 
that  any  navigator  had  explored  the  Indian  seas  until 
years  after  this  time,  altliough  no  doubts  were  enter- 
tained of  the  practicaliility  of  reacliing  India  by  ex- 
tending the  route  tliey  had  pursued. 

At  ihe  time  these  discoveries  were  made.  Portugal 
was  not  wealthy ;  in  fact,  she  had  been  exhausted  by 
long  and  fierce  wars  with  the  Moors.  Their  success 
was,  therefore,  from  tlieir  enterprize  and  hardihood, 
and  not  from  wealth  or  avarice,  the  two  great  springs 
to  adventure.  Previous  to  this  time,  the  Genoese  had 
been  a  nmch  greater  commercial  and  naval  people  than 
the  Portuguese.  They  had  enjoyed  a  great  share  of  the 
commerce  of  the  east,  but  were  prevented  at  this  time 
from  following  up  the  enterprize  of  the  Portuguese 
from  internal  commotions  and  civil  wars. 

It  was  not  so  with  the  Tuscans.  At  Florence  at  this 
period  every  thing  of  a  commercial  nature  was  prospe- 
rous. Casmo  De  Mcdicis  had  carried  on  a  most  flou- 
rishing commerce  from  1415  to  1464.  During  this  pe- 
riod he  was  the  patron  of  letters  and  the  arts,  and  was 
a  magistrate  of  exemplary  virtue  in  a  republic  of 
wcaltli  and  enterprize;  but  it  does  not  appear  that  Cas- 
mo attempted  to  make  any  discoveries.  At  the  time 
the  Pgrtuguese  were  the  most  successful,  Lt)renzo,  his 
grandson,  who  was  called  the  magnificeni,  was  in  the 
height  of  his  power  and  fame.  He  was  just  that  bold 
and  gallant  spirit  that  seemed  likely  to  take  these  dis- 
coveries into  consideration  and  to  have  pushed  them  to 
the  utmost  extent;  but  whether  his  quarrels  with  tlic 
pope  and  cardinals  prevented  his  turnin<r  liis  attention 
to  an  exploring  expedition,  or  tliat  his  mind  was  too 
much  engaged  in  politics,  is,  perhaps,  to  be  left  to  con- 


272 

jecture.  Lorenzo  died  April  8,  1492,  while  Columbus 
was  getting  ready  for  sea  on  his  first  voyage  of  disco- 
very. 

The  time  had  now  arrived  in  the  destinies  of  man 
when  a  new  view  of  things  was  to  be  taken,  from  new 
objects  of  interest  and  ambition.  The  maritime  world 
had  been  mostly  confined,  when  the  Portuguese  began 
their  discoveries,  to  the  Mediterranean  and  the  seas  of 
of  the  north.  All  the  naval  battles  had  been  in  the 
Mediterranean.  These  seas  were  the  fields  of  fame 
for  those  nations  who  ventured  to  launch  upon  them, 
and  a  western  world  was  not  dreamt  of  by  those  inha- 
biting the  eastern  continent.  It  was  reserved  for  Co- 
lumbus, a  Genoese,  bom  in  J447,  to  be  the  discoverer 
of  this  continent.  He  wag  well  educated  for  the  age 
in  which  he  lived  ;  and  there  was  considerable  science 
then  extant,  for  about  the  time  he  received  his  educa- 
tion, the  learned  Greeks  had  fled  from  Constantinople, 
and  Genoa  had  next  to  Florence  the  benefits  of  their 
knowledge.  Of  an  enterprising  disposition,  he  early  en- 
gaged himself  as  a  mariner,  and  became  acquainted  with 
all  the  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean  and  the  northern 
seas,  then  the  great  wonder  of  the  world.  He  engaged 
with  the  Portuguese  and  followed  their  track  to  the  Ma- 
deira Islands  and  the  Azores.  He  was  also  engaged 
in  sea-fights,  and  was,  all  things  considered,  one  of 
the  most  accomplished  men  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived.  He  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  distinguished 
mariner,  and  had  access  to  his  charts  and  journals, 
which  threw  much  light  on  the  discoveries  then  made. 

Columbus  had  no  sooner  conceived  a  plan  of  finding 
a  passage  to  the  Indies,  than  he  brought  all  his  re- 
sources to  bear  on  the  subject,  and  his  mind  became  so 


273 

convinced  of  the  truth  of  his  theorj',  that  it  amounted 
quite  to  demonstration  with  him  in  his  visions  of  fu- 
ture glory.  In  the  fuhiessof  this  conviction  lie  aj)plicd 
to  Genoa,  his  native  country,  to  assist  him,  but  she 
was  in  no  situation  to  undertake  the  charge  and  ex- 
penses of  an  enterprize  which  probably  was  thought 
would  be  much  greater  in  a  pecuniary  jjoint  of  view 
than  they  were  prei)ared  to  meet.  He  then  proposed 
the  matter  to  king  John  II,  of  Portugal.  The  causes 
alleged  for  this  enterpri/ing  monarch's  rejecting  the 
proposition  have  been  variously  stated;  but  the  true 
one  was  jealousy;  for  tiiere  was  an  attempt  nuule  to 
forestall  Columbus  in  this  adventure,  wliich  was  defeated 
by  ignorance  and  timidity.  HenryVII,  who,  after  the 
close  of  the  civil  wars,  attended  much  to  commerce 
and  naval  aifairs,  and  had  advanced  ship-building  to  its 
then  highest  state  among  maritime  nations,  was  applied 
to  by  Columbus,  tlirougli  his  brotlier,  Bartholomew, 
but  the  king  either  had  no  faith  in  the  adventure,  or 
wanted  ready  means  to  defray  the  expenses  of  it;  at 
anv  rate,  he  declined  affording  assistance  to  Columbus, 
or  to  make  an  en^agnment  in  regard  to  the  enterprize. 
While  the  brothfr  of  Columbus  was  soliciting  the 
king  of  Kngland,  he  himself  was  using  every  argument 
to  indnce  the  queen  of  Leon  and  Castile  to  engage  in 
this  voyage  of  discovery  ;  but  after  following  up  hia 
solicitations  for  a  long  time  his  patience  was  quite  ex- 
hausted, and  he  was  about  quilting  Spain,  when  a  good 
providence  made  him  acquainted  with  an  intelligent 
ecclesiastic,  Juan  Peres,  who  was  a  prior  of  a  convent. 
This  worthy  man,  by  the  a.«sistance  of  the  best  mathe- 
maticians he  could  find,  examined  CoUmhIius'  [)lan,and 
became  thoroughly  convinced  of  its  soundness,  and 
24 


,  274 

urged  the  reasons  he  had  to  give,  with  so  much  force 
and  sincerity,  as  to  make  Isabella  pause,  and  at  last 
yield  to  them,  with  delicacy  and  grace ;  hut  Columbus, 
with  all  the  tenacity  of  a  proud  man,  conscious  that  he 
is  about  an  important  affair,  urged  his  terms  so  boldly 
that  the  negociation  was  broken  off. 

Towards  the  close  of  1491,  the  Spanish  arms  were 
successful,  and  Grenada  surrendered.  In  this  happy 
moment  the  friends  of  the  enterprize  bi  ought  it  up 
again,  and  the  terms,  such  as  Columbus  had  insisted  on, 
without  his  yielding  one  jot,  were  at  length  agreed  to. 
But  it  is  quite  certain  that  this  pride  of  genius  was  the 
cause  of  the  misfortunes  of  himself  and  family ;  for  after 
his  discovery,  all  Spain  were  jealous  of  his  fame,  par- 
ticularly the  grandees  and  the  king.  The  fleet  procur- 
ed for  the  purpose  of  discovery  was  a  miserable  business, 
— on«  vessel  with  a  single  deck,  and  two  without  any, 
manned  with  only  ninety  men,  was  the  whole  naval  con- 
cern. The  Pintons,  two  brothers,  commanded  the  two 
vessels  without  decks.  They  were  enterprising  sailors, 
and  had  much  of  the  Spanish  gentlemen  in  their  cha- 
racters. The  admiral  found  them  of  great  service  in 
his  voyage.  The  expedition  sailed  on  ihe  3d  of  Au- 
gust, 1492.  After  touching  at  one  of  the  Canaries,  and 
overcoming  every  obstacle,  he  had  the  good  fortune  to 
discover  land,  and  take  possession  of  it  on  the  12th  of 
October  following.  It  would  be  a  very  delightful  task 
to  go  minutely  through  the  voyage  of  Columbus,  and 
trace  out  the  incidents  of  so  eventful  a  life,  as  this  gfeat 
navigator's.  This  has  been  done  by  several  writers, 
but  by  none  with  so  much  truth,  taste,  and  genius,  as  is 
found  in  the  Life  of  Columbus,  by  our  illustrious  coun- 
tryman, Washington  Irving.    He  has  done  justice  to 


275 

all  parties  in  this  great  affair.  In  this  book,  to  the  pure 
and  mellow  li^ht  of  Goldsmith,  iio  has  added  the  accu- 
racy of  Lingard,  and  the  eloquence  of  Turner.  All 
other  histories  of  the  discoverer  will  hereafter  be  oidy 
epitomes,  oreulogies,  or  tedious  narratives.  It  was  a 
happy  subject  most  happily  executed,  it  was  not  until 
the  third  voyage  of  discovery  that  the  great  navig.Uor 
touched  upon  this  continent;  he  had  spent  his  time  pre- 
viously upon  the  islands. 

In  1499,  Ojeda,  fitted  out  by  the  merchants  of  Seville, 
made  his  great  voyage.  He  had  been  with  Columbus 
in  his  first  successful  enterprize.  He  was  accompanied 
in  this  voyage  by  Amerigo  Vespucci,  a  navigator  from 
Florence,  a  man  of  science,  and  of  nautical  and  classi- 
cal attainments.  He  published  an  account  of  his  voy- 
age at  Florence,  where  letters  had  been  highly  cultivat- 
ed, under  the  auspices  of  the  successor  of  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent.  This  reading  community,  as  well  as 
maritime,  wished  to  have  their  share  in  the  glory  of  the 
discovery.  It  was  very  natural  that  they  should  think 
well  of  their  distinguished  navigator,  but  in  all  proba- 
bility there  was  no  intention  in  the  mind  of  Amerigo 
of  robbing  Columbu.^  of  his  glory.  But  as  the  book 
was  called  the  Voyages  of  Amerigo,  the  continent,  or 
what  -was,  but  not  then  ascertained  to  bo  one,  was  called 
the  land  of  Amerigo.  As  the  universal  language  of 
the  learned  of  Kurope  at  that  time  was  Latin,  Ameri- 
go's book  was.  of  course,  to  use  the  old  phra.se,  done 
into  Ijatin.  In  this,  his  name  was  Americus  Vespucci, 
in  that  language,  and  Americu,t,  the  prefi.x,  in  Latin 
becnme,  to  suit  the  gender  of  nami«  of  countries,  was 
made  into  Amrrira. 

It  is  not  often  the  case  that  discoverers,  or  invcnlorai, 


276 

or  other  benefactors  of  mankind,  receive  their  proper 
meed  of  praise  in  their  own  times.  Envy,  jealousy, 
and  honest  rivalry,  all  interfere  to  stop  the  current  of 
honest  fame ;  but  there  is  a  redeeming  spirit  in  man- 
kind, that  sootier  or  later  shows  itself,  and  turns  and 
overturns  public  opinion,  until  all  things,  in  a  measure, 
come  right.  Columbus,  in  the  end,  lost  nothing  of  his 
fame  ;  but  has  had,  and  ever  will  have,  his  just  share 
of  glory. 

But  neither  Columbus,  nor  Vespucci,  nor  Ojeda  had 
in  truth,  and  fact,  the  honor  of  discovering  this  conti- 
nent. John  Cabot,  a  Venetian,  who  had  often  been  in 
England,  and  was  well  known  in  that  country  as  a 
pilot,  as  he  was  then  called,  meaning  a  distinguished 
mariner  and  navigator,  made  a  proposition  to  Henry 
VII  to  make  an  exploring  expedition,  and  take  a  more 
northern  course  in  order  to  find  the  way  to  India. 
These  proposals  were  acceded  to  by  the  king,  who  with 
the  aid  of  several  merchants  of  Bristol,  fitted  out  an 
expedition  for  discovery.  The  letters  patent  were 
signed  1497,  by  Henry  VII,  empowering  Cabot  and  his 
three  sons  to  discover,  conquer,  and  settle  lands  then 
unknown;  yet  it  was  nearly  two  years  before  their 
small  vessels  could  be  got  ready  for  the  enterprize. 
The  king  furnished  one  ship  and  the  merchants  three, 
and  the  fleet  sailed  in  the  spring  of  1499.  In  July  the 
island  of  Newfoundland  was  discovered.  The  great 
navigator  then  coasted  down  to  Florida.  He  was  truly 
the  discoverer  of  this  continent,  for  he  anticipated  Co- 
lumbus the  space  of  several  days. 

Sebastian  Cabot,  son  of  John,  was  born  in  Bristol, 
England,  and  of  course  was  attached  to  the  land  of  his 
birth.    He  was  young  when  he  accompanied  his  father 


277 

on  his  first  voyage.  In  the  eiglith  year  of  the  reign  of 
Ileary  VIII,  Sebastian  Cabot  was  sent  out  again  on  a 
voyage  of  discovery,  but  from  some  disa/fcclion  he  re- 
turned, and  left  the  service  of  Kngland  and  went  to 
Spain.  By  this  time  all  maritime  nations,  feeling  not 
a  little  jealous  of  each  otiier,  were  ready  to  employ 
any  great  navigator  who  might  ofler  his  services. 
Spain  made  him  up  a  fine  fleet,  and  he  pushed  for 
South  America,  and  made  sortie  advances  towards  a  set- 
tlement. Tliis  was  in  1525.  He  had  spent  twenty 
years  on  shore,  previous  to  his  last  voyage  from  Eng- 
land. He  had  high  Spanish  titles,  but  as  every  sea- 
man is  somewhat  restless,  if  not  exactly  capricious,  he 
8oon  after  his  return  left  Spain  for  England.  This  was 
at  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII ;  but  notwith- 
standing he  had  been  in  the  service  of  foreign  powers, 
he  was  cordially  recoived  in  England — retained  h!s 
hold  on  public  opinion — and  died  in  quiet,  at  the  good 
old  age  of  eighty  years,  highly  honored  and  respected. 

In  1500,  Cabral,  a  Portuguese,  in  wending  his  way 
to  the  East  Indies,  fearing  the  dangers  of  the  African 
coast,  swept  off  into  the  expanse  of  the  Atlantic,  and 
was  by  force  of  a  storm  driven  on  to  the  South  Amer- 
ican coast.  He  took  possession  of  that  part  of  the  con- 
tinent in  the  name  of  the  Portuguese  government,  and 
called  the  place  Brazil.  This  name  the  country  lias 
retained  until  this  day.  Thus  most  of  the  maritime 
countries  of  that  day  had  some  claim  to  the  discovery 
of  the  new  world.  Tlie  pope  had  encouraged  the  voy- 
ages of  discovery  from  Prince  Henry  of  Portugal,  and 
the  see  of  R(jme  iiold.s  some  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction 
over  every  part  of  it  now. 

It  has  been  regretted  by  many  historians  that  Co- 
24* 


278 

lumbus  iiad  not,  through  the  intervention  of  his  bro- 
ther, succeeded  with  Henry  VII  in  getting  up  a  voy- 
age of  discovery;  as  if  that  would  have  changed  the 
destinies  of  this  continent.  For  my  own  part,  I  can 
say  that  I  have  no  such  feeUngs.  England  at  that  pe- 
riod had  no  surplus  population  for  colonies;  nor  had 
man  become  suflicieiiily  enlightened  to  have  com- 
menced a  new  population  that  w«uld  have  done  much 
honor  to  the  human  race.  The  impulse  given  to 
the  world  by  Luther  and  Calvin,  and  other  reform- 
ers, and  the  freedom  of  think  ng  coi  sequent  on  that 
impulse,  were  necessary  in  planting  a  nursery  of  free- 
men. All  the  South  American  colonists  brought  with 
them  the  superstitions  of  their  native  land:  nor  for 
ages  was  there  the  slightest  amehoration  of  it.  If  the 
settlers  of  North  America  had  not  improved  on  the 
scanty  doctrines  of  civil  liberty  which  were  known  and 
•practised  upon  in  the  days  of  Henry  VII,  we  should 
not  now  have  been  in  the  possession  of  all  our  free  in- 
stitutions, which  we  so  greatly  enjoy.  In  fact,  the  fin- 
ger of  heaven  directed  the  hour,  more  than  a  hundred 
years  after  this  period,  for  the  settlement  of  North 
America.  The  germ  of  civil  liberty  wa>  swelling. and 
bursting  into  life  at  that  period  of  her  settlement,  not 
only  in  England,  but  also  in  Holland,  and  all  those 
countries  that  furnished  colonists  for  the  new  region. 
The  W^aldenses  and  the  Hugonots,  who  came  next  after 
the  very  first  settlers,  were  those,  or  a  remnant  of  those 
oppressed  at  home.  They  made  good  recruits  for  the 
new  field  of  thought,  action,  intention,  and  purpose. 
The  new  doctrines  of  the  rights  of  man  found  here  a 
congenial  soil ;  the  bosom  of  the  new  carii  cherished 
#iem,  and  the  sun  of  the  new  heavens  beamed  upon 


279 

them  his  fructifying  ray.  From  a  seedUng,  the  tree  of 
liberty  became  a  mighty  oak,  under  whose  shade  na- 
tions were  to  repose  ;  whose  leaves  were  to  emit  the 
vitiil  air,  to  be  breathed  by  all,  and  from  whose  bouglis 
■were  to  drop  the  germinating  principles  of  freedom 
that  were  one  day  to  be  planted  in  other  soils. 

The  superb  character  of  Columbus,  full  of  genius, 
science,  patience,  piety,  and  all  that  honor  the  man  and 
adorn  the  Cliristian,  should  never  be  lost  sight  of  by 
the  American  people.  They  should  raise  his  monu- 
ment, and  read  his  history. 

The  Florentine  should  also  be  a  subject  of  our  ad- 
miration ;  he  was  a  high-spirited  and  intelligent  cha- 
racter, and  did  nothing  unfair  or  unjust.  If  he  was 
destined  to  give  a  name  to  our  birth-place,  it  was  no 
fault  of  his.  Spain  kept  the  voyages  of  Columbus  a 
secret  in  their  details  for  many  years,  but  the  Floren- 
tines wished  all  things  to  be  open  and  free  as  air.  The 
Venetians,  father  and  son,  under  the  auspices  of  Eng- 
land, gave  all  their  discoveries  to  the  world  most  freely. 
These  navigators  broke  the  egg  and  set  it  on  end  ;  they 
plucked  from  the  expanse  of  the  ocean  its  terrors, 
-which  arose  from  distance,  uncertainty,  storms,  cur- 
rents, trade  winds,  and  unaccountable  tides,  and  made 
it.  vast  as  it  was,  as  harmless  as  the  smooth  waters  of  a 
plaeifl  lake.  The  inii.d  of  man  had  now  a  wider  range ; 
he  did  not  feel  as  though  pent  up  in  the  narrow  con- 
fines of  one  world,  but  threw  his  glance  to  another, 
and  indulged  in  visions  of  new  glories  which  might 
rcsiill  from  entcrprize. 

'I'he  century  that  passed  af  <  r  the  discovery  of  this 
continent,  before  the  settlement  of  ihat  part  of  it  now 
called  the  United  States,  was  fraught  with  the  deepest 


280 

interests,  as  to  South  America.  Ferdinand  Cortes  had 
sailed  from  Cuba  in  February,  1519,  with  an  army  of 
only  five  hundred  and  eight  common  soldiers,  sixteen 
horsemen,  and  one  hundred  and  nine  mechanics,  pilots, 
and  mariners,  to  conquer  the  great  kingdom  of  Mexico. 
Of  all  the  stories  of  romance  the  history  of  Cortes  is 
the  most  wonderful.  With  this  handful  of  heroes,  he 
marched  to  Cholula,  fought,  and  conquered  myriads  of 
Flascalons,  and  made  them  vassals  to  his  master,  the 
king  of  Spain ;  and  bade  them  follow  him  to  assist,  as 
they  did,  in  subjugating  the  Mexicans.  The  conquest 
of  Montezuma,  and  his  dominion  over  the  high-spirited 
monarch,  is  a  tale  of  wonder  on  a  tide  of  blood.  The 
history  of  Gautimozin  is,  in  the  moral  world,  what 
Ossa  upon  Pelion  was  in  the  fabled  world ;  it  was  an 
effort  never  before  equalled,  nor,  perhaps,  ever  will  be 
again.  The  royal  standard  of  Mexico  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Cortes,  and  he  arrayed  one  party  of  those  ig- 
norant natives  to  destroy  another.  Cortes  left  Mexico 
"  the  skin  of  an  immolated  victim,"  and  his  name  to  be 
associated  with  rapine  and  cruelty  ;  but  if  you  could 
wash  him  of  the  stains  of  unnecessary  blood,  he  would 
be  unrivalled  for  military  prowess  in  the  annals  of 
his  time. 

In  twenty-two  years  after  the  conquest  of  Mexico, 
Pizarro  conquered  the  Peruvian  empire.  The  Incas 
had  been  a  race  of  men  distinguished  for  ages.  From 
the  time  of  Pizarro,  until  the  last  of  the  exiled  Incas,  a 
term  of  twenty-five  years,  there  is  nothing  but  perfidy 
and  murder  on  the  side  of  the  Spaniards,  and  generous 
and  high  feeling  confidence  on  the  part  of  the  sove- 
reigns of  Peru.  "  The  exiled  Incas  preferred  the  scan- 
ty bread  found  in  the  v/ilds  of  the  Andes  to  the  pro- 


281 

misc3  of  Spaiiish  munificence ;  but  intrigue  and  power 
prevailed,  and  the  blootl  so  long  hunted  for  was  sucked 
at  last.  What  remained  of  the  Inca  race,  they  sent  to 
uncongenial  climes  to  be  destroyed  by  disease.  Thir- 
ty-eight of  the  Inca  race  were  sent  to  Lima,  and  in 
less  than  two  years  all  but  three  of  them  were  dead, 
and  these  soon  followed. 

"Thus  perished  the  males  of  the  blood  royal  of  Peru. 
Tupac  Amaru,  the  head  of  the  Inca  family,  was  sen- 
tenced to  the  scaffold,  and  those  who  invented  the  in- 
quisition racked  their  imagination  to  make  his  death 
degrading.  The  representative  of  the  sun,  on  the  day 
appointed  for  the  execution,  was  leil  forth  on  a  mule 
■with  his  hands  pinioned,  a  halter  around  his  neck,  ajid 
the  crier  going  before  him  proclaiming  his  approaching 
death  and  the  imputed  cause  of  it.  While  moving  to 
the  square  the  procession  was  met  by  a  numerous  band 
of  Peruvian  women,  exclaiming  with  passionate  cries 
and  loud  lamentations  against  the  conduct  of  Toledo, 
the  Spanish  viceroy,  and  demanding  that  they  might 
be  slaughtered  in  the  company  of  their  prince,  rather 
than  to  remain  alive  to  be  the  slaves  of  his  murderers. 
Never,  indeed,  upon  whatever  occasion,  was  a  move- 
ment of  popular  grief  connnunicated  through  a  greater 
mass  of  indignant  and  agonized  beings.  Entering  the 
square,  where  the  scaffold  stood,  the  eye  gazed  upon 
three  hundred  thousand  souls,  assembled  to  witness  the 
last  mournful  hour  of  him  wlio  was  the  object  of  pro- 
foimd  veneration  to  all,  as  the  heir  of  their  ancient  sov- 
reigns,  and  the  descendent,  not  of  a  long  line  of  kings 
only,  but  of  the  very  gods  themselves,  whom  the  nation 
wf)n<bipped.  In  his  death  they  were  to  behold,  not 
merely  the  prostration  of  the  Incas,  but  the  finishing 


282 

(Stroke  given  to  the  glorious  empire  of  the  sun,  and  the 
sceptre  of  Peru  pass  into  the  liands  of  a  foreign  race, 
the  despisers  of  the  rehgion  of  the  land,  th<?  usurpers 
of  its  dominion,  and  the  tyrannical  oppressors  of  its 
inhabitants.  They  seemed  invited,  as  it  were,  to  attest 
the  act  of  finally  setting  the  seal  to  their  own  perpetual 
servitude.  The  idea  roused  them  to  shouts  of  ven- 
geance. As  the  Inca  ascended  the  fatal  stage,  and 
stood  environed  by  the  priests  in  their  sacerdotal  vest- 
ments, and  near  him  the  hateful  executioner  with  his 
drawn  sword  displayed,  their  excitement  and  indigna- 
tion broke  all  bounds,  and  but  for  an  incident  as  re- 
markable as  it  was  timely,  the  Peruvians  might,  even 
then,  in  the  extremity  of  their  just  rage,  have  fallen 
upon  the  Spaniards,  and  crushed  them  beneath  the 
mere  weight  of  the  eager  thousands,  who  seemed  ready 
to  rush  upon  death  to  rescue  their  adored  luca.  But 
just  as  the  elements  of  discord  were  on  the  point  of 
being  wrought  up  to  fury,  the  Inca  raised  his  right 
hand  until  the  open  palm  was  on  a  line  with  his  right 
ear,  and  then  slowly  depressed  it  down  to  his  right 
thigh.  At  this  familiar  signal  of  silence,  instantly,  as 
if  the  angel  of  destruction  had  swept  over  the  assem- 
bled crowds,  the  noisy  and  tumultuous  multitude  sunk 
into  stillness  the  most  profound,  and  not  less  appalling 
than  its  previous  commotion.  The  Spaniards  were, 
struck  with  amazement  at  the  scene,  which  manifested 
so  clearly  the  extraordinary  authority  still  exercised  by 
the  Inca  over  the  minds  of  the  Peruvians ;  and  justi- 
fied, in  some  degree,  the  policy  of  Toledo.  The  exe- 
cution now  proceeded  tranquilly  to  its  conclusion,  and 
the  Inca  met  his  end  with  that  unshrinking  fortitude, 
.dignity,  and  contempt,  which  have  universally  markeo 


283 

the  Indian  in  the  last  struggles  of  dissolving  nature. 
Thus  terminated  tlie  direct  male  lineage  of  the  childre* 
of  the  sun." 

Without  entering  into  more  particulars,  we  may  con- 
clude that  the  first  century  of  the  discovery  of  the  new 
■world  was  passed  and  ended  in  crime  and  blood.  The 
great  discoverer  with  all  his  enthusiasni,  would,  per- 
haps, if  he  had  foreseen  all  things,  regretted  that  he 
had  ever  been  born  to  give  to  the  old  w(»rld  a  new  one. 

When  Elizabeth  began  her  reign  and  showed  her  ta- 
lents for  politics,  it  was  natural  that  she  should  have 
easily  l>een  persuaded  to  have  become  the  patron  of  a 
plan  for  colonizing  some  portion  of  the  western  conti- 
nent, which  her  grandfather  claimed  by  the  right  of 
discovery.  She  saw  that  her  rival,  and  powerful  foe, 
Spain,  derived  great  advantages  from  her  cohinies  of 
South  America.  She  was  ambitious  too  of  as  exten- 
sive a  territory  as  other  monarchs.  At  the  suggestion 
of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  then  a  courtier  in  high  favor 
with  the  queen.  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  was  commis- 
sioned with  viceroy  authority  over  all  lands  he  might 
discover,  &c. 

The  equipment  was  a  bad  one,  and  his  first  voyage 
was  unsuccessful ;  but  u)  three  years,  1583,  he  tried  it 
again.  He  had  now  the  pecuniary  aid  of  Sir  George 
Peckham,  Sir  Walter  IJaloigh,  and  many  others  wIki  took 
a  s'iare  in  the  cnterprize.  (.'iibert  .suled  to  Newfound- 
land, and  took  possession  of  the  country  in  a  formal 
manner.  In  jiassing  southward  liis  prinripal  ship  was 
cast  on  some  shoals,  and  ninety  or  a  himdred  of  his  men 
pcrislied,  among  whom  was  Stephen  rarmeniusBiKh-ius, 
a  Hungarian  gentleman  of  learning,  who  embarked  as 
journalist  of  the  voyage.     These  early  navigators  were 


284 

men  of  too  much  sense  to  suppose  that  one  competent 
to  navigate  a  ship  was  always  sufficiently  learned  to  be 
able  to  give  a  just  account  of  the  various  kingdoms  of 
nature  which  might  be  noticed  in  a  Toyage.  This  dis- 
aster did  not  break  down  the  spirits  of  Gilbert  until  he 
had  made  further  struggles ;  but  a  sad  fate  hung  over 
him.  On  his  return,  a  storm  arose,  his  ship  foundered, 
and  all  perished.  His  fate  was  deeply  deplored,  for  he 
was  pious,  learned,  brave,  eloquent, — a  statesman  of  sa- 
gacity, integrity,  and  patriotism. 

The  death  of  Sir  Humphrey  was  a  severe  blow  to 
Sir  Walter,  but  he  was  not  a  man  to  give  over  an  en- 
terprize  for  a  few  untoward  events.  The  queen  was 
his  friend,  and  of  course  he  readily  procured  a  patent 
of  as  extensive  a  nature  as  that  before  given  to  his  la- 
mented brother-in-law.  Two  small  vessels  were  readily 
fitted  out  to  take  a  more  southern  situation,  and  ap- 
proaching the  continent  by  the  Gulf  of  Florida,  they 
came  to  the  island  of  Ocrakoke,  which  is  near  North 
Carolina;  from  thence  they  sailed  to  Roanoke,  near 
the  mouth  of  Albemarle  sound.  This  enterprize  had 
been  entrusted  to  Amadas  and  Barlow. _  These  gentle- 
men, after  a  short  visit,  returned  to  England,  and  gave 
a  most  glowing  picture  of  the  country  in  their  report  to 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  They  represented  the  manners  of 
the  males  and  females  of  the  natives  as  polite  and  gen- 
teel; their  manner  of  living  as  quite  luxurious,  and 
their  bounty  as  without  stint.  To  use  the  precise  lan- 
guage of  their  report,  "  we  foimd  the  people  most  gen- 
tle, loving,  and  faithful,  void  of  all  guile  and  treason, 
and  such  as  live  after  the  manner  of  the  golden  age." 
Their  manner  of  serving  up  their  food  was  quite  differ- 
ent to  the  Indians  of  more  northern  climes. 


285 

This  report  gave  delight  to  all  concerned,  from  the 
queen  to  the  smallest  share-holder  in  the  enterprize ; 
and  it  was  not  difficult,  after  this,  to  obtain  means  to 
follow  up  what  they  had  so  successfully  commenced. 
Seven  ships  were  despatched.  Sir  Richard  Grenville 
took  the  command  of  the  lleet.  He  was  one  of  tlie 
most  enlightened  and  cliivalrous  men  of  the  age.  He 
had  in  his  company  Ralph  Lane,  Esq.,  as  governor  of 
the  colony,  and  Herriat,  a  mathematician  of  renown, 
and  quite  a  corps  of  men  of  science.  Grenville  visited 
the  territory  and  people  described  by  Amadas  and  Bar- 
low, and  having  examined  tlie  island  of  Roanoke,  he 
embarked  for  England,  leaving  Lane,  with  one  hundred 
and  seven  persons,  to  begin  a  colony.  This  was  the 
first  English  colony  ever  planted  in  America.  Herriat 
remained  with  this  handful  of  men,  and  was  unremit- 
ting in  his  endeavors  to  learn  every  thing  lie  could  dur- 
ing his  stay  on  the  continent ;  but  the  greater  portion 
of  the  inhabitants  came  to  these  shores  with  hope  of 
acquiring  gold,  not  of  settling  a  territory  ;  and  giving 
up  a  certainty  for  a  most  egregious  uncertainty,  they 
neglected  to  secure  the  means  of  support,  and  soon 
found  themselves  in  a  most  miserable  condition,  when 
Sir  Francis  Drake,  returning  from  an  unsuccessful  ex- 
pedition against  the  Spaniards,  came  to  their  relief. 
But  the  vessel  he  sent  loaded  with  provisions  for  thom, 
was  wrecked  before  she  reached  the  shore.  In  this  ex- 
tremity, nothing  was  left,  in  their  state  of  mind,  but  to 
take  them  back  to  England,  which  he  did.  If  they  had 
bet-n  sufliciently  courageous  to  have  remained  a  few 
days  loneffT,  they  would  have  been  relieved  by  sup|)]ies 
from  Sir  Walter  ;  and  in  a  few  days  after  the  first  sup- 
plies arrived,  Sir  Richard  Grenville  himself  came  to 
2ri 


286 

Ihem  with  three  ships,  but  could  not  find  any  thing  of" 
the  colony  he  had  left ;  and,  leaving  fifty  of  his  crew 
to  keep  possession  of  the  island  of  Roanoke,  he  return- 
ed home.  These  attempts  at  colonization  had  their 
good  effects.  Herriat  was  a  man  of  sense,  and  spoke  of 
things  as  he  found  them.  All  the  romantic,  idle  sto- 
ries were  blown  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  and  truth, 
naked  truth,  alone  appeared. 

The  people  who  returned  home  Avith  governor  Lane 
had  learned  the  use  of  tobacco,  and  Sir  Walter  under- 
took, by  using  it  himself  in  smoking,  to  make  it  fash- 
ionable. The  Indians  considered  the  weed  as  the  most 
gracious  gift  of  the  Great  Spirit.  Smoking  had  been 
in  use  in  the  east,  but,  probably,  tobacco  was  not  before 
known. 

Raleigh  was  induced  to  make  further  efforts  to  settle 
his  favorite  Virginia,  a  name  which  had  been  given  to 
the  whole  Anglo-American  coast,  after  the  description 
given  by  Amadas  and  Barlow.  In  1587,  he  sent  ano- 
ther expedition,  but  they  could  find  nothing  of  the  men 
left  there  to  guard  the  fort, — they  had  perished.  Ne- 
vertheless he  landed  a  body  of  one  hundred  and  seven- 
teen colonists.  They  kept  on  for  a  while,  and  then  all 
sailed  to  England  for  supplies.  Grenville  was  about 
coming  to  their  assistance,  but  the  Spanish  Armada 
was  announced,  and  every  naval  hero  was  required  for 
home-service.  Raleigh  made  another  ineffectual  effort 
and  all  was  over  for  that  time.  The  colonization  of 
Anglo- America  was  to  be  begun. 

In  1602,  Gosnold  made  a  voyage  with  an  intent  to 
awaken  the  spirit  of  emigration.  He  named  the  well 
known  Cape,  afterwards  politically  consecrated  by  the 
pilgrims.    He  landed  on  some  island  on  the  south  side 


287 

of  Cape  Cod,  but  his  efforts  are  oiJy  matters  of  minute 
history.  Every  exertion,  however,  advanced  nautical 
knowledge,  for  Gosnold  saved  about  one  third  of  tiie 
distance  across  the  Atlantic  by  his  track. 

Elizabeth  died  the  next  year,  and  James  of  Scotland 
came  to  the  throne.  The  succeeding  voyages  fitted  out 
by  the  merchants  of  Bristol  and  Lord  Arundel  confirm- 
ed all  Gosnold  related.  Elizabeth  was  an  excellent 
queen,  whatever  might  have  been  her  failings  as  a  wo- 
man. If  she  was  not  fitted  for  a  high-priestess  of  Vesta, 
she  made  an  admirable  resistance  to  Spain,  and  all  her 
enemies,  but  her  greatest  admirers  cannot  say  nuicii  of 
her  exertions  in  attempting  to  settle  this  country.  She 
gave  a  liberal  charter  to  Gilbert,  and  made  the  fortunes  of 
Raleigh;  but  the  public  exchequer  did  not  suffer  by  all 
that  w;is  done  by  them  and  others,  and  it  is  a  little  as- 
tonishing that  one  so  shrewd  should  not  have  made  ar 
rangements  for  the  settlement  of  colonies,  as  it  was 
then,  as  it  has  since  been,  a  very  favorite  doctriive  that 
colonies  were  necessary  for  commercial  enterprize. 

An  ecclesiastic  was  the  next  champion  for  coloniza- 
tion. Kichard  Hackluyt,  a  prebendary  of  Westminster, 
had  preached  with  great  effect  the  doctrines  of  coloni- 
zation ;  and  after  these  repeated  failures,  he  rehewed 
his  exertions  with  success.  Associations  were  formed, 
and  James  was  jK-titioned  for  a  charter.  For  a  while 
the  whole  business  was  in  the  hands  of  traders,  who 
joined  in  fishing  and  purchasing  furs, — not  thinking  of 
making  a  permanent  settlement,  and,  probably,  not 
wishimr  frir  *me;  but  Hackhiyt  and  liis  friends  were 
confined  to  ni»  narrow  notions  upon  this  subject. 

In  IWX),  a  corporation  was  formed  for  a  new  effcjrt. 
3IaDy  now  joined  in  the  scheme  for  public  good,  as  we 


288 

now  subscribe  for  rail-roads,  or  turnpikes,  or  canals 
not  thinking  of  exorbitant  profits,  but  wishing  to  do 
something  for  the  public  good.  To  carry  their  inten- 
tion into  effect,  a  vessel  of  only  one  hundred  tons,  and 
two  small  barques,  were  taken  up.  Capt.  Newport  was 
commander,  and  Mr.  Percy,  a  brother  of  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland,  was  in  the  enterprize,  but  the  soul  of 
it  was  Captain  John  Smith.  He  has  justly  been  called 
the  father  of  Virginia. 

The  next  settlement  on  our  coast  was  that  of  the 
New-Netherlands.  The  states  of  Holland,  and  the 
other  provinces  of  the  Netherlands,  were  no  sooner  in 
quiet  with  Spain  than  they  showed  their  enterprizing 
spirit,  and  availing  themselves  of  the  discovery,  by 
Henry  Hudson,  of  the  great  river,  in  1609,  a  trading 
community  commenced  a  settlement  on  the  island  of 
Manhattan.  At  first  they  seem  to  have  had  no  char- 
ter ;  no  other  claim  to  the  soil  than  the  one  obtained  by 
first  possession  and  Hudson's  discovery,  who  was  then 
in  the  employment  of  Holland. 

In  1614,  the  same  year  Smith  was  on  the  coast  of 
New  England,  Adnaon  Blok  and  Hendrick  Christaonse, 
two  Dutchmen,  coasted  along  the  New  England  bor- 
ders. A  fortunate  peace  was  soon  made  by  these  sa- 
gacious traders  with  the  Indians,  and  their  early  days 
passed  without  being  harassed  by  this  terrific  foe. 

The  year  1621  was  an  era  in  the  history  of  New 
Netherlands,  in  the  formation  of  a  society,  by  their 
high  mightinesses  the  States  General,  wliich  extended 
to  the  settling  of  these  countries,  discovered  by  Hudson, 
as  well  as  monopolizing  trade  in  every  quarter  of  the 
globe,  as  far  as  possible.  This  corporation  did  not  go 
into  practical  effect  until  1623.    The  first  trading  com- 


289 

pany  had  near!y  despaired  of  getting  on  when  Ihe  se- 
cond arrived,  and  was  finally  merged  in  it.  IVter 
Minnit  was  the  first  governor.  It  was  intended  to  be 
a^  purely  as  possible  a  commercial  government.  The 
head  men  were  only  first,  second,  third,  and  fourth 
merchants.  The  legislative,  judicial  and  executive 
powers,  were  given  to  the  council  as  n\erely  incidents, 
and  not  as  primary  principles.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  cham- 
ber of  commerce,  with  the  power  of  carrying  into  ef- 
fect tlieir  own  decrees. 

Until  this  time  the  settlers  had  made  but  a  very  slow 
advance  in  agriculture  or  the  arts,  liaving  confined  them- 
selves to  the  fur  trade.  In  the  year  1624,  these  settlers  ex- 
ported 4.700  beaver  and  otter  skii#.  The  whole  amount 
of  imports,  including  1624  and  1027,  four  years,  was 
S46.207,  and  the  exports  Kfi8.rj()7.  Thus  trade  continued 
to  increase,  for,  in  1635,  the  Dutch  exported  from  New 
Netherlands  14.891  beaver,  and  1413  otter  skins,  esti- 
mated at  134.000  guilders. 

In  1625,  the  first  child  of  European  parents  was  born. 
This  is  a  strong  proof  that  it  was  at  first  considered  as 
a  trading  fortress,  not  a  permanent  community ;  but 
this  vear  the  W'aaloons  went  from  the  island  of  Man- 
hattan tn  Long  Island,  and  began  agricultural  pursuits. 
Tlie  Waalooiis  were  a  bold,  hardy,  yeoman  race;  tliey 
were  the  last  to  wear  the  Roman  yoke  in  their  native 
land,  and  the* first  to  strike  it  off.  They  should  have 
had  minute  historians. 

About  this  time,  De  Leet  went  to  Holland,  and  pu]>- 
lished  nn  account  of  the  New  World,  jiarticularly  of 
the  Now  Netherlands.  This  work  made  quite  a  sensa- 
tion, and  sold  better,  probably,  than  any  history  of 
New-York  has  since. 

25* 


290 

In  1627,  the  settlement,  as  well  as  the  whole  coast,  was 
annoyed  by  pirates ;  and  it  behoved  the  great  association 
at  home  to  see  to  this  matter.  Admiral  Peter  Pietersen 
Heyn  was  sent  to  look  them  up.  He  pursued  them 
and  took  thirty  of  these  merchant  pirates  under  the 
guns  of  St.  Salvador,  with  immensely  rich  cargoes* 
He  fought  bravely  and  this  quieted  the  whole  concern 
for  a  long  while. 

In  this  year,  1637,  governor  Minuit  sent  a  deputation 
to  the  governor  and  council  of  Plymouth,— one  letter 
written  in  Dutch  and  the  o-ther  in  French,  The  letters 
the  Dutch  governor  sent  were  kind  and  friendly, "  touch- 
ing upon  the  propinquity  of  their  native  countries,  and 
their  long  continued  friendship;"  and,  minding  the 
main  chance,  suggested  that  it  would  be  well  for  both 
parties  "  to  fall  into  a  way  of  some  commerce  and 
trade,"  offering  any  of  their  goods  that  might  be  ser- 
viceable.   This  was  fair  and  courteous. 

Bradford's  letter  in  reply  was  long,  pious,  courteous, 
and  shrewd.  After  expressing  a  deep  modesty  of  read- 
ing the  sounding  titles  given  them  by  the  Dutch,  Brad- 
ford goes  on  to  thank  heaven  that  Holland  and  England 
are  united  to  humble  Spain.  He  then  alludes  to  the 
'Circumstance  that  he  and  his  people  had  lived  in  Hol- 
1  land ;  but  he  wishes  his  Dutch  friends  to  understand 
that  the  grant  to  the  New  England  company  extends 
all  along  the  coast,  and  be  desires  that  the  Dutch  would 
not  come  to  Narraganset  Bay,  "  which  is,  as  it  were, 
at  our  very  doors,"  and  this  remark  he  concludes  with 
a  hint,  that  if  it  is  not  regarded,  he  must  look  to.  his 
majesty  for  redress.  But  now  to  the  bargain.  "We 
are  .provided  with  articles  now,  but  if  we  should  trade, 
we  should  like  to  know  the  terms."     The  language  of 


291 

the  governor  is  as  wary  as  coiild  be  framed.  He  had 
no  prices  current  to  send  his  correspondent,  but  he 
says,  "  it  may  so  fall  out,  that  hereafter  we  shall  deal  with 
you,  if  your  rates  be  reasonable  ;  and  therefore,  when 
your  people  come  again,  wo  desire  to  know  how  you 
will  take  beavers  by  the  pound,  and  otters  by  the  skin  ; 
and  how  you  will  deal  per  cent,  for  otlier  commodities, 
and  what  you  can  furnish  us  with  ;  as,  likewise,  what 
commodities  from  us  may  be  acceptable  with  you,  as 
tobacco,  fish,  com,  or  other  things,  and  what  prices  you 
will  give." 

Minuit  answered  this  letter  by  saying  he  had  a  fight 
to  trade  with  the  natives  in  the  prohibited  places,  but 
makes  his  declaration  in  a  few  words,  and  the  courteous 
demeanor  is  still  kept  up ;  and  to  ensure  it  a  most 
friendly  reception,  the  Dutch  governor  accompanied 
his  letter  with  "a  runlet  of  sugar  and  two  Holland 
cheeses,"  as  a  present.  For  this,  most  courteous  thanks 
•were  returned. 

It  must  have  been  suggested  at  home,  or  these  few 
people  would  not  have  considered  it  of  so  much  conse- 
quence to  have  kept  up  such  an  intimacy ;  for  before 
an  answer  was  returned,  Minuit  sent  an  ambassador 
to  Plymouth.  The  second  man  in  the  colony,  Mr. 
Secretary  Razier,  went  as  ambassador  to  governor 
Bradford,  in  •'  the  barque  Nassau,  froiglited  with  a  few 
articles  for  traffic,  manned  with  a  retinue  of  soldiers 
and  trumpeters,  conformable  to  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
and  proixtrlional  with  the  dignity  of  the  second  officer 
f.f  tin-  govi-rnmcnl."  Tlie  b;iniut'  started  from  the  east 
side  of  where  the  battery  now  is.  The  anihassador, 
with  his  flourish  of  trumpets,  arrived  at  Plymouth,  in 
trutli,  merely  as  a  commercial  manager    but  on  hisar- 


292 

rival  some  of  the  Puritans,  from  their  long  connection 
with  those  in  Holland,  remembered  him,  or  his  friends, 
and  it  passed  off  as  a  right  kind,  affectionate  meeting. 
The  Dutch  urged  Bradford  to  leave  the  barren  coast  on 
which  he  had  landed,  and  come  to  fresh  river ^  where 
the  soil  was  better.  Bradford,  in  return,  in  the  most 
friendly  manner,  urged  Razier  to  look  to  their  titles  to 
this  goodly  heritage  of  theirs, — see  well  to  the  purchase 
deed  and  guarantys.  The  whole  interview  was  a  most 
perfect  exposition  of  the  characters  of  both  people. 
Good  faith  was  kept  up  between  them  for  a  long  time. 

In  1629,  when  the  company  directing  the  West  India 
concerns  became  so  great,  that  the  States  General  be- 
came alarmed,  and  the  right  of  fighting,  conquering, 
and  condemning  as  piracies  was  thought  quite  too  great 
to  be  entrusted  in  the  hands  of  a  few,  the  charter 
was  of  course  modified,  and  in  1632,  Wouter  Von  Twil- 
ler  superseded  Minuit.  It  was  in  remodeling  this  char- 
ter that  the  States  General  acknowledged  the  advantage 
and  authorized  the  legitimacy  of  the  settlement.  It 
was  at  this  period  that  the  fort  was  enlarged,  and  many, 
who  now  lost  all  fear,  did  nothing  but  attend  to  agri- 
culture and  commerce. 

One  of  the  great  securities  in  the  political  destinies 
of  this  country  is,  that  there  is  no  long  line  of  distin- 
guished ancestors  claimed  by  one  set  of  persons.  The 
origin  of  all  the  early  settlers  were  about  equal.  They 
were  honest,  industrious  people,  belonging  to  those  who 
have  in  every  country  the  true  principles  of  liberty,  if 
they  be  preserved  any  where. 

The  year  1620  is  memorable  for  the  settlement  of 
New  England.  The  Puritans  had  gone  to  Holland  in 
1607.  thence  removed  to  Leyden.    They  wished  to  find 


293 

a  new  place.  Several  of  the  adventurers  sold  their  es- 
Uites,  and  made  common  stock  of  tlie  proceeds.  They 
purchased  what  they  called  a  ship,  of  sixty  tons,  called 
the  Speedwell,  and  chartered  the  Mayflower,  of  one 
hundred  and  eighty  tons.  They  stumbled,  literally,  at 
the  threshold.  They  sailed  from  Leyden  in  July,  btit 
were  obliged  to  return  twice.  On  tho  second  return 
the  Speedwell  was  condemned  as  unfit  for  service  ;  and 
they  finally  embarked  in  the  Mayflower,  on  the  sixth 
of  September.  After  a  boisterous  passage  they  made 
Cape  Cod  on  the  ninth  of  November.  This  was  seve- 
ral degrees  farther  north  than  they  intended  to  strike 
the  continent,  and  in  attempting  to  proceed  towards 
Hudson  River  they  fell  among  shoals. 

Finding  themselves  in  the  forty-second  degree  of 
north  latitude,  they  were  sensible  that  their  charter  was 
good  for  nothing;  and  on  the  eleventh  of  November, 
after  solemn  prayer,  they  drew  up  a  constitution  or 
form  of  government.  This  compact  was  signed  by 
forty  one  persons,  for  themselves  and  families,  amount- 
ing to  one  hundred  and  one  souls.  Mr.  John  Carver 
was  chosen  governor  for  one  year,  and  Miles  Standish 
was  sent  into  the  country  to  make  discoveries.  They 
gaw  a  few  Indians,  and  found  some  baskets  of  corn. 
This  treasure  gave  seed  for  the  next  year.  On  the 
elevehth  day  of  December,  O.  S.— corresponding  to  the 
twenty-second,  N.  S.— they  landed  on  Cape  Cod. 

A  short  time  after  tlie  departure  of  these  emigrants, 
a  patent  was  granted  by  James  to  the  Duke  of  Lenox, 
and  others,  which  covered  the  ground  they  had  taken 
up. 

Thus  commenced  these  settlements  on  the  shores  of 
North  America,  which,  amidst  difficulties,  dangers,  and 


294 

suflFerings,  have  grown  into  a  great  nation.  Here  the 
doctrine  of  self-government  has  been  proved,  for,  from 
the  very  first,  the  colonists  had  the  habits,  the  forms, 
and  the  spirit  of  liberty.  Out  of  their  necessities  grew 
those  social  compacts  which  were  still  preserved  in 
making  up  the  federal  union.  The  perpetuity  of  this 
union  depends  upon  the  intelligence  of  the  people,  and 
part  of  their  knowledge  should  be  the  history  of  their 
country,  not  only  in  its  battles,  and  its  increase,  but  in 
the  origin  and  growth  of  its  political,  moral,  and  litera- 
ry institutions.  The  days  of  small  things  become  im- 
portant by  the  lapse  of  time.  It  required  a  sound  acorn, 
and  a  succession  of  ages,  to  have  produced  the  majestic 
oak ;  but  the  tree  was  in  the  germ  when  it  burst  the 
shell,  and  its  growth  was  left  to  nature  and  the  care  of 
man.  Our  ancestors  searched  into  every  age  and  na- 
tion for  the  seminal  principles  of  freedom,  to  plant  and 
cultivate  them  in  the  land  which  is  now  our  goodly 
heritage;  they  took  from  Greece  their  indomitable  spi- 
rit of  freedom,  and  their  love  of  activity  and  enter- 
prize  ;  and  Rome  had  not  an  officer,  from  a  consul  to  a 
lictor,  whose  duties  are  not  discharged  by  some  one  of 
our  own, — all  virtually  proceeding,  with  us,  from  the 
people ;  and  there  is  a  harmony  in  the  whole  worth 
preserving. 

To  look  to  the  early  days  of  our  nation's  existence ; 
to  trace  the  progress  of  empire,  step  by  step,  through 
more  than  two  centuries  up  to  the  present  time,  is  one 
of  the  duties  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  America. 
This  was  once  a  great,  and  a  difficult  task  ;  for  our  fa- 
thers had  not  the  facilities  of  getting  this  information 
that  we  have.  As  society  advances,  more  and  more  is 
required  of  every  one,  and  he  who  is  behind  the  age  is 


295 

trodden  upon  and  passed  over,  by  those  who  come  after 
him.    To  strive  for  the  mastery,  and  to  contend  for  the 
race,  on  the  course  of  knowledge,  is  the  spirit  of  our 
people,  and,  in  fact,  of  our  times,  among  other  nations; 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  day  is  not  far  distant 
when  the  abode  of  the  domestic  circle  will  be  nigh  to 
the  hall  of  philosophy.    Almost  every  thing  may  be 
accomplislied  by  energy  and  perseverance.     The  pas- 
sage of  Napoleon  over  St.  Bernard,  in  the  sM'eep  of  his 
power,  is  an  emblem,  but  a  faint  one,  of  the  conquests 
of  mind  in  the  progress  of  knowledge.    Intellectual 
victories  are  permanent  and  useful,  while  those  of  the 
sword  may  be  of  doubtful  utility,  even  in  the  blaze  of 
their  glory, — and  succeeding  times  are  seldom  benefit- 
ted by  the  blood  of  nations,  however  profusely  poured 
out.     In  these  times  of  peace  and  prosperity,  the  hu- 
man mind  may  find  full  employment  in  getting  know- 
ledge of  a  useful  kind.   The  natural  and  the  moral  world 
have  not  yet  been  half  explored.     As  far  as  philoso- 
phers have  gone,  they  have  not  sounded  the  depths  of 
the  human  soul ;  high  as  moralists  and  religious  men 
have  soared,  they  have  only  given  us  a  partial  analysis 
of  man,  and  but  a  glimpse  of  his  Creator.    Every  de- 
partment of  knowledge  opens  a  field  for  a  virtuous  and 
a  laudable  ambition ;  a  field  where  none  perish   that 
others  may  be  great,  but  where  every  conquest  makes 
the  paths  of  those  who  follow  smoother  and  more  de- 
li iihtful.     The  value  of  human  life  is  every  day  in- 
creased by  the  progress  of  knowledge,  for  we  begin  to 
think  earUer,  and  reason  longer,  than  those  who  had 
less  information  than  we  luive  ;  in  proportion  to  the 
height  of  the  sun  at  noon  is  the  length  and  beauty  of 
the  dawn  and  the  loveliness  of  the  evening  twihght. 


296 

If  in  the  visions  of  the  future  glories  of  this  country 
we  behold  villages,  towns,  and  cities,  extending  from 
the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  happy  in  accumulated  wealth, 
resplendent  in  taste  and  beauty,  why  may  we  not  see 
in  the  same  glow  of  inspiration  new  men  rising  in  the 
boundless  prospect,  plucking  up,  with  a  strong  hand, 
the  poisonous  weeds  of  error,  and  cultivating  the  soil 
on  which  they  grew  for  a  goodly  purpose  ?  New  men, 
who  with  new  ingenuity,  and  fresh  vigor  shall  interro- 
gate nature  imtil  she  shall  give  new  responses,  develop- 
ing her  deep  mysteries  more  freely.  New  men,  a  term 
of  reproach  in  decayed  nations,  but  here  the  only  no- 
bility—the only  order  of  distinction ;  new,  because  they 
bring  new  lamps  into  the  temple  of  science  that  shall 
burn  with  a  broader  blaze  and  purer  flame  than  those 
which  have  long  been  glimmering  and  flickering  upon 
her  altars;  new,  because  their  names  are  identified 
with  new  principles  and  new  discoveries — and  because 
in  collecting  and  diffusing  knowledge  they  lay  man- 
kind under  new  obligations  of  gratitude. 


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PR 
99 
K72p 


